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Y  of  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


THE 
HORSESTEALERS 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

ANTON  CHEKHOV 


FROM  THE   RUSSIAN   BY 

CONSTANCE  GARNETT 


WILLEY  BOOK  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 

41519 


PRINTED   IN    THE   UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


Copyright,  1921, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and   printed.     Published  June,    1921. 


FERRIS    PRINTING     COMPANY 
•   l.u    rOBK   CITY 


nil 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


The  Horse-Stealers  .  3 

Ward  No.  6 29 

The  Petchenyeg 113 

A  Dead  Body 131 

A  Happy  Ending 141 

The  Looking-Glass 151 

Ou?  Age jJbi_^ 

\      I^arkness o     .     .(    171      ) 

The  Beggar 179 

A  Story  Without  a  Title 189 

In  Trouble 197 

Frost 209 

o     A  Slander 221 

$     Minds  in  Ferment 0 

*1)      (2one  Astray .  f  23J 

V^  An  Avenger     ....»,,«,.,.     245 
The  Jeune  Premier    ..,...»     a     .     255 

/    J\  Defenceless  Creature /205    y 

An  Enigmatic  Nature ^75 

A  Happy  Man 281 

A  Troublesome  Visitor 291 

An  Actor's  End 303 


THE  HORSE-STEALERS 


THE  HORSE-STEALERS 
AND   OTHER  STORIES 

THE  HORSE-STEALERS 

A  hospital  assistant,  called  Yergunov,  an  empty- 
headed  fellow,  known  throughout  the  district  as  a 
great  braggart  and  drunkard,  was  returning  one  eve- 
ning in  Christmas  week  from  the  hamlet  of  Ryepino, 
where  he  had  been  to  make  some  purchases  for  the 
hospital.  That  he  might  get  home  in  good  time  and 
not  be  late,  the  doctor  had  lent  him  his  very  best 
horse. 

At  first  it  had  been  a  still  day,  but  at  eight  o'clock 
a  violent  snow-storm  came  on,  and  when  he  was  only 
about  four  miles  from  home  Yergunov  completely 
lost  his  way. 

He  did  not  know  how  to  drive,  he  did  not  know 
the  road,  and  he  drove  on  at  random,  hoping  that 
the  horse  would  find  the  way  of  itself.  Two  hours 
passed;  the  horse  was  exhausted,  he  himself  was 
chilled,  and  already  began  to  fancy  that  he  was  not 
going  home,  but  back  towards  Ryepino.  But  at  last 
above  the  uproar  of  the  storm  he  heard  the  far-away 
barking  of  a  dog,  and  a  murky  red  blur  came  into 
sight  ahead  of  him:  little  by  little,  the  outlines  of  a 
high  gate  could  be  discerned,  then  a  long  fence  on 
which  there  were  nails  with  their  points  uppermost, 

3 


4  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

and  beyond  the  fence  there  stood  the  slanting  crane 
of  a  well.  The  wind  drove  away  the  mist  of  snow 
from  before  the  eyes,  and  where  there  had  been  a 
red  blur,  there  sprang  up  a  small,  squat  little  house 
with  a  steep  thatched  roof.  Of  the  three  little 
windows  one,  covered  on  the  inside  with  something 
red,  was  lighted  up. 

What  sort  of  place  was  it?  Yergunov  remem- 
bered that  to  the  right  of  the  road,  three  and  a  half 
or  four  miles  from  the  hospital,  there  was  Andrey 
Tchirikov's  tavern.  He  remembered,  too,  that  this 
Tchirikov,  who  had  been  lately  killed  by  some 
sledge-drivers,  had  left  a  wife  and  a  daughter  called 
Lyubka,  who  had  come  to  the  hospital  two  years 
before  as  a  patient.  The  inn  had  a  bad  reputation, 
and  to  visit  it  late  in  the  evening,  and  especially 
with  someone  else's  horse,  was  not  free  from  risk. 
But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  Yergunov  fumbled  in 
his  knapsack  for  his  revolver,  and,  coughing  sternly, 
tapped  at  the  window-frame  with  his  whip. 

"  Hey  1  who  is  within?  "  he  cried.  "  Hey,  granny! 
let  me  come  in  and  get  warm !  " 

With  a  hoarse  bark  a  black  dog  rolled  like  a  ball 
under  the  horse's  feet,  then  another  white  one,  then 
another  black  one — there  must  have  been  a  dozen 
of  them.  Yergunov  looked  to  see  which  was  the 
biggest,  swung  his  whip  and  lashed  at  it  with  all  his 
might.  A  small,  long-legged  puppy  turned  its  sharp 
muzzle  upwards  and  set  up  a  shrill,  piercing  howl. 

Yergunov  stood  for  a  long  while  at  the  window, 
tapping.  But  at  last  the  hoar-frost  on  the  trees  near 
the  house  glowed  red,  and  a  muffled  female  figure 
appeared  with  a  lantern  in  her  hands. 


there 
woma. 
gunov.  i 
the  hous 
saddle. 

The  firsi 
very  hot,  a. 
short,  lean 
fair  beard,  \ 
the  table  un 


1 


J 

t 
s 

>>  • 

j r  made 
.  looking 

,vay,  and  if 
10  believe  it 
would  'have 
women?  " 
ino,  and  the 


The  Horse-Stealers  7 

girl  is  getting  supper  ready  .  .  ."  answered  Kalash- 
nikov. 

Silence  followed.  Yergunov,  shivering  and  gasp- 
ing, breathed  on  his  hands,  huddled  up,  and  made 
a  show  of  being  very  cold  and  exhausted.  The  still 
angry  dogs  could  be  heard  howling  outside.  It 
was  dreary. 

"You  come  from  Bogalyovka,  don't  you?"  he 
asked  the  peasant  sternly. 

"  Yes,  from  Bogalyovka." 

And  to  while  away  the  time  Yergunov  began  to 
think  about  Bogalyovka.  It  was  a  big  village  and 
it  lay  in  a  deep  ravine,  so  that  when  one  drove  along 
the  highroad  on  a  moonlight  night,  and  looked  down 
into  the  dark  ravine  and  then  up  at  the  sky,  it 
seemed  as  though  the  moon  were  hanging  over  a 
bottomless  abyss  and  it  were  the  end  of  the  world. 
The  path  going  down  was  steep,  winding,  and  so 
narrow  that  when  one  drove  down  to  Bogalyovka 
on  account  of  some  epidemic  or  to  vaccinate  the 
people,  one  had  to  shout  at  the  top  of  one's  voice, 
or  whistle  all  the  way,  for  if  one  met  a  cart  coming 
up  one  could  not  pass.  The  peasants  of  Bogalyovka 
had  the  reputation  of  being  good  gardeners  and 
horse-stealers.  They  had  well-stocked  gardens.  In 
spring  the  whole  village  was  buried  in  white  cherry- 
blossom,  and  in  the  summer  they  sold  cherries  at 
three  kopecks  a  pail.  One  could  pay  three  kopecks 
and  pick  as  one  liked.  Their  women  were  hand- 
some and  looked  well  fed,  they  were  fond  of  finery, 
and  never  did  anything  even  on  working-days,  but 
spent  all  their  time  sitting  on  the  ledge  in  front  of 
their  houses  and  searching  in  each  other's  heads. 


8  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

But  at  last  there  was  the  sound  of  footsteps. 
Lyubka,  a  girl  of  twenty,  with  bare  feet  and  a  red 
dress,  came  into  the  room.  .  .  .  She  looked  side- 
ways at  Yergunov  and  walked  twice  from  one  end 
of  the  room  to  the  other.  She  did  not  move  simply, 
but  with  tiny  steps,  thrusting  forward  her  bosom; 
evidently  she  enjoyed  padding  about  with  her  bare 
feet  on  the  freshly  washed  floor,  and  had  taken  off 
her  shoes  on  purpose. 

Kalashnikov  laughed  at  something  and  beckoned 
her  with  his  finger.  She  went  up  to  the  table,  and 
he  showed  her  a  picture  of  the  Prophet  Elijah,  who, 
driving  three  horses  abreast,  was  dashing  up  to  the 
sky.  Lyubka  put  her  elbow  on  the  table ;  her  plait 
fell  across  her  shoulder — a  long  chestnut  plait  tied 
with  red  ribbon  at  the  end — and  it  almost  touched 
the  floor.    She,  too,  smiled. 

11  A  splendid,  wonderful  picture,"  said  Kalashni- 
kov. "  Wonderful,"  he  repeated,  and  motioned  with 
his  hand  as  though  he  wanted  to  take  the  reins  in- 
stead of  Elijah. 

The  wind  howled  in  the  stove;  something  growled 
and  squeaked  as  though  a  big  dog  had  strangled  a 
rat. 

"Ugh!  the  unclean  spirits  are  abroad!"  said 
Lyubka. 

'That's  the  wind,"  said  Kalashnikov;  and  after 
a  pause  he  raised  his  eyes  to  Yergunov  and  asked: 
"  And  what  is  your  learned  opinion,  Osip  Vassilyitch 
— are  there  devils  in  this  world  or  not?  " 

"What's  one  to  say,  brother?"  said  Yergunov, 
and  he  shrugged  one  shoulder.  "  If  one  reasons 
from  science,  of  course  there  are  no  devils,  for  it's 


The  Horse-Stealers  J 

a  superstition;  but  if  one  looks  at  it  simply,  as  you 
and  I  do  now,  there  are  devils,  to  put  it  shortly.  .  .  . 
I  havre  seen  a  great  deal  in  my  life.  .  .  .  When  I 
finished  my  studies  I  served  as  medical  assistant  in 
the  army  in  a  regiment  of  the  dragoons,  and  I  have 
been  in  the  war,  of  course.  I  have  a  medal  and  a 
decoration  from  the  Red  Cross,  but  after  the  treaty 
of  San  Stefano  I  returned  to  Russia  and  went  into 
the  service  of  the  Zemstvo.  And  in  consequence  of 
my  enormous  circulation  about  the  world,  I  may  say 
I  have  seen  more  than  many  another  has  dreamed 
of.  It  has  happened  to  me  to  see  devils,  too;  that 
is,  not  devils  with  horns  and  a  tail — that  is  all 
nonsense — but  just,  to  speak  precisely,  something  of 
the  sort." 

"  Where?  "  asked  Kalashnikov. 

"  In  various  places.  There  is  no  need  to  go  far. 
Last  year  I  met  him  here — speak  of  him  not  at 
night — near  this  very  inn.  I  was  driving,  I  re- 
member, to  Golyshino;  I  was  going  there  to  vac- 
cinate. Of  course,  as  usual,  I  had  the  racing  droshky 
and  a  horse,  and  all  the  necessary  paraphernalia, 
and,  what's  more,  I  had  a  watch  and  all  the  rest  of 
it,  so  I  was  on  my  guard  as  I  drove  along,  for  fear 
of  some  mischance.  There  are  lots  of  tramps  of  all 
sorts.  I  came  up  to  the  Zmeinoy  Ravine — damnation 
take  it — and  was  just  going  down  it,  when  all  at 
once  somebody  comes  up  to  me — such  a  fellow! 
Black  hair,  black  eyes,  and  his  whole  face  looked 
smutted  with  soot.  .  .  .  He  comes  straight  up  to 
the  horse  and  takes  hold  of  the  left  rein:  '  Stop!  ' 
He  looked  at  the  horse,  then  at  me,  then  dropped 
the  reins,  and  without  saying  a  bad  word,  '  Where 


10  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

are  you  going?  '  says  he.  And  he  showed  his  teeth 
in  a  grin,  and  his  eyes  were  spiteful-looking.  .  .  . 
'  Ah,'  thought  I,  '  you  are  a  queer  customer !  '  'I 
am  going  to  vaccinate  for  the  smallpox,'  said  I. 
'And  what  is  that  to  you?'  'Well,  if  that's  so,' 
says  he,  '  vaccinate  me.'  He  bared  his  arm  and 
thrust  it  under  my  nose.  Of  course,  I  did  not  bandy 
words  with  him;  I  just  vaccinated  him  to  get  rid 
of  him.  Afterwards  I  looked  at  my  lancet  and  it 
had  gone  rusty." 

The  peasant  who  was  asleep  near  the  stove  sud- 
denly turned  over  and  flung  off  the  sheepskin;  to  his 
great  surprise,  Yergunov  recognized  the  stranger 
he  had  met  that  day  at  Zmeinoy  Ravine.  This 
peasant's  hair,  beard,  and  eyes  were  black  as  soot; 
his  face  was  swarthy;  and,  to  add  to  the  effect,  there 
was  a  black  spot  the  size  of  a  lentil  on  his  right 
cheek.  He  looked  mockingly  at  the  hospital  as- 
sistant and  said: 

"  I  did  take  hold  of  the  left  rein — that  was  so; 
but  about  the  smallpox  you  are  lying,  sir.  And 
there  was  not  a  word  said  about  the  smallpox  be- 
tween us." 

Yergunov  was  disconcerted. 

"  I'm  not  talking  about  you,"  he  said.  "  Lie 
down,  since  you  are  lying  down." 

The  dark-skinned  peasant  had  never  been  to  the 
hospital,  and  Yergunov  did  not  know  who  he  was 
or  where  he  came  from;  and  now,  looking  at  him,  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  the  man  must  be  a  gypsy. 
The  peasant  got  up  and,  stretching  and  yawning 
loudly,  went  up  to  Lyubka  and  Kalashnikov,  and 
sat  down  beside  them,  and  he,  too,  began  looking  at 


The  Horse-Stealers  1 1 

the  book.  His  sleepy  face  softened  and  a  look  of 
envy  came  into  it. 

"Look,  Merik,"  Lyubka  said  to  him;  "get  me 
such  horses  and  I  will  drive  to  heaven." 

"  Sinners  can't  drive  to  heaven,"  said  Kalashni- 
kov.     "  That's  for  holiness." 

Then  Lyubka  laid  the  table  and  brought  in  a  big 
piece  of  fat  bacon,  salted  cucumbers,  a  wooden  plat- 
ter of  boiled  meat  cut  up  into  little  pieces,  then  a 
frying-pan,  in  which  there  were  sausages  and  cabbage 
spluttering.  A  cut-glass  decanter  of  vodka,  which 
diffused  a  smell  of  orange-peel  all  over  the  room 
when  it  was  poured  out,  was  put  on  the  table  also. 

Yergunov  was  annoyed  that  Kalashnikov  and  the 
dark  fellow  Merik  talked  together  and  took  no 
notice  of  him  at  all,  behaving  exactly  as  though  he 
were  not  in  the  room.  And  he  wanted  to  talk  to 
them,  to  brag,  to  drink,  to  have  a  good  meal,  and  if 
possible  to  have  a  little  fun  with  Lyubka,  who  sat 
down  near  him  half  a  dozen  times  while  they  were 
at  supper,  and,  as  though  by  accident,  brushed 
against  him  with  her  handsome  shoulders  and  passed 
her  hands  over  her  broad  hips.  She  was  a  healthy, 
active  girl,  always  laughing  and  never  still:  she 
would  sit  down,  then  get  up,  and  when  she  was  sit- 
ting down  she  would  keep  turning  first  her  face  and 
then  her  back  to  her  neighbour,  like  a  fidgety  child, 
and  never  failed  to  brush  against  him  with  her  elbows 
or  her  knees. 

And  he  was  displeased,  too,  that  the  peasants 
drank  only  a  glass  each  and  no  more,  and  it  was 
awkward  for  him  to  drink  alone.    But  he  could  not 


12  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

refrain  from  taking  a  second  glass,  all  the  same, 
then  a  third,  and  he  ate  all  the  sausage.  He  brought 
himself  to  flatter  the  peasants,  that  they  might  accept 
him  as  one  of  the  party  instead  of  holding  him  at 
arm's  length. 

11  You  are  a  fine  set  of  fellows  in  Bogalyovka!  " 
he  said,  and  wagged  his  head. 

"  In  what  way  fine  fellows?  "  enquired  Kalash- 
nikov. 

"  Why,  about  horses,  for  instance.  Fine  fellows 
at  stealing!  " 

"  H'm !  fine  fellows,  you  call  them.  Nothing  but 
thieves  and  drunkards." 

"  They  have  had  their  day,  but  it  is  over,"  said 
Merik,  after  a  pause.  "  But  now  they  have  only 
Filya  left,  and  he  is  blind." 

"  Yes,  there  is  no  one  but  Filya,"  said  Kalashni- 
kov,  with  a  sigh.  "  Reckon  it  up,  he  must  be  seventy ; 
the  German  settlers  knocked  out  one  of  his  eyes,  and 
he  does  not  see  well  with  the  other.  It  is  cataract. 
In  old  days  the  police  officer  would  shout  as  soon  as 
he  saw  him:  '  Hey,  you  Shamil!  '  and  all  the  peas- 
ants called  him  that — he  was  Shamil  all  over  the 
place;  and  now  his  only  name  is  One-eyed  Filya. 
But  he  was  a  fine  fellow!  Lyuba's  father,  Andrey 
Grigoritch,  and  he  stole  one  night  into  Rozhnovo — 
there  were  cavalry  regiments  stationed  there — and 
carried  off  nine  of  the  soldiers'  horses,  the  very  best 
of  them.  They  weren't  frightened  of  the  sentry, 
and  in  the  morning  they  sold  all  the  horses  for 
twenty  roubles  to  the  gypsy  Afonka.  Yes!  But 
nowadays  a  man  contrives  to  carry  off  a  horse  whose 
rider  is  drunk  or  asleep,  and  has  no  fear  of  God,  but 


The  Horse-Stealers  13 

will  take  the  very  boots  from  a  drunkard,  and  then 
slinks  off  and  goes  away  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
with  a  horse,  and  haggles  at  the  market,  haggles  like 
a  Jew,  till  the  policeman  catches  him,  the  fool. 
There  is  no  fun  in  it;  it  is  simply  a  disgrace!  A 
paltry  set  of  people,  I  must  say." 

"  What  about  Merik?  "  asked  Lyubka. 

"  Merik  is  not  one  of  us,"  said  Kalashnikov. 
"  He  is  a  Harkov  man  from  Mizhiritch.  But  that 
he  is  a  bold  fellow,  that's  the  truth;  there's  no  gain- 
saying that  he  is  a  fine  fellow." 

Lyubka  looked  slily  and  gleefully  at  Merik,  and 
said: 

"  It  wasn't  for  nothing  they  dipped  him  in  a  hole 
in  the  ice." 

"  How  was  that?  "  asked  Yergunov. 

"  It  was  like  this  .  .  ."  said  Merik,  and  he 
laughed.  "  Filya  carried  off  three  horses  from  the 
Samoylenka  tenants,  and  they  pitched  upon  me. 
There  were  ten  of  the  tenants  at  Samoylenka,  and 
with  their  labourers  there  were  thirty  altogether, 
and  all  of  them  Molokans.  ...  So  one  of  them 
says  to  me  at  the  market :  '  Come  and  have  a  look. 
Merik;  we  have  brought  some  new  horses  from  the 
fair.'  I  was  interested,  of  course.  I  went  up  to 
them,  and  the  whole  lot  of  them,  thirty  men,  tied 
my  hands  behind  me  and  led  me  to  the  river.  '  We'll 
show  you  fine  horses,'  they  said.  One  hole  in  the  ice 
was  there  already;  they  cut  another  beside  it  seven 
feet  away.  Then,  to  be  sure,  they  took  a  cord  and 
put  a  noose  under  my  armpits,  and  tied  a  crooked 
stick  to  the  other  end,  long  enough  to  reach  both 
holes.      They   thrust   the   stick   in   and  dragged  it 


14  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

through.  I  went  plop  into  the  ice-hole  just  as  I 
was,  in  my  fur  coat  and  my  high  boots,  while  they 
stood  and  shoved  me,  one  with  his  foot  and  one  with 
his  stick,  then  dragged  me  under  the  ice  and  pulled 
me  out  of  the  other  hole." 

Lyubka  shuddered  and  shrugged. 

"  At  first  I  was  in  a  fever  from  the  cold,"  Merik 
went  on,  "  but  when  they  pulled  me  out  I  was  help- 
less, and  lay  in  the  snow,  and  the  Molokans  stood 
round  and  hit  me  with  sticks  on  my  knees  and  my 
elbows.  It  hurt  fearfully.  They  beat  me  and  they 
went  away  .  .  .  and  everything  on  me  was  frozen, 
my  clothes  were  covered  with  ice.  I  got  up,  but  I 
couldn't  move.  Thank  God,  a  woman  drove  by  and 
gave  me  a  lift." 

Meanwhile  Yergunov  had  drunk  five  or  six  glasses 
of  vodka;  his  heart  felt  lighter,  and  he  longed  to  tell 
some  extraordinary,  wonderful  story  too,  and  to 
show  that  he,  too,  was  a  bold  fellow  and  not  afraid 
of  anything. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  happened  to  us  in  Penza 
Province  .   .   ."  he  began. 

Either  because  he  had  drunk  a  great  deal  and 
was  a  little  tipsy,  or  perhaps  because  he  had  twice 
been  detected  in  a  lie,  the  peasants  took  not  the 
slightest  notice  of  him,  and  even  left  off  answering 
his  questions.  What  was  worse,  they  permitted 
themselves  a  frankness  in  his  presence  that  made 
him  feel  uncomfortable  and  cold  all  over,  and  that 
meant  that  they  took  no  notice  of  him. 

Kalashnikov  had  the  dignified  manners  of  a  sedate 
and  sensible  man;  he  spoke  weightily,  and  made  the 
sign   of  the   cross  over  his  mouth   every  time  he 


The  Horse-Stealers  15 

yawned,  and  no  one  could  have  supposed  that  this 
was  a  thief,  a  heartless  thief  who  had  stripped  poor 
creatures,  who  had  already  been  twice  in  prison,  and 
who  had  been  sentenced  by  the  commune  to  exile  in 
Siberia,  and  had  been  bought  off  by  his  father  and 
uncle,  who  were  as  great  thieves  and  rogues  as  he 
was.  Merik  gave  himself  the  airs  of  a  bravo.  He 
saw  that  Lyubka  and  Kalashnikov  were  admiring 
him,  and  looked  upon  himself  as  a  very  fine  fellow, 
and  put  his  arms  akimbo,  squared  his  chest,  or 
stretched  so  that  the  bench  creaked  under  him.   .   .   . 

After  supper  Kalashnikov  prayed  to  the  holy 
image  without  getting  up  from  his  seat,  and  shook 
hands  with  Merik;  the  latter  prayed  too,  and  shook 
Kalashnikov's  hand.  Lyubka  cleared  away  the  sup- 
per, shook  out  on  the  table  some  peppermint  bis- 
cuits, dried  nuts,  and  pumpkin  seeds,  and  placed  two 
bottles  of  sweet  wine. 

"  The  kingdom  of  heaven  and  peace  everlasting 
to  Andrey  Grigoritch,"  said  Kalashnikov,  clinking 
glasses  with  Merik.  "  When  he  was  alive  we  used 
to  gather  together  here  or  at  his  brother  Martin's, 
and — my  word !  my  word !  what  men,  what  talks ! 
Remarkable  conversations  !  Martin  used  to  be  here, 
and  Filya,  and  Fyodor  Stukotey.  ...  It  was  all 
done  in  style,  it  was  all  in  keeping.  .  .  .  And  what 
fun  we  had!     We  did  have  fun,  we  did  have  fun!" 

Lyubka  went  out  and  soon  afterwards  came  back 
wearing  a  green  kerchief  and  beads. 

"  Look,  Merik,  what  Kalashnikov  brought  me 
to-day,"  she  said. 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  looking-glass,  and 
tossed  her  head  several  times  to  make  the  beads 


16  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

jingle.  And  then  she  opened  a  chest  and  began 
taking  out,  first,  a  cotton  dress  with  red  and  blue 
flowers  on  it,  and  then  a  red  one  with  flounces  which 
rustled  and  crackled  like  paper,  then  a  new  kerchief, 
dark  blue,  shot  with  many  colours — and  all  these 
things  she  showed  and  flung  up  her  hands,  laughing 
as  though  astonished  that  she  had  such  treasures. 

Kalashnikov  tuned  the  balalaika  and  began  play- 
ing it,  but  Yergunov  could  not  make  out  what  sort 
of  song  he  was  singing,  and  whether  it  was  gay  or 
melancholy,  because  at  one  moment  it  was  so  mourn- 
ful he  wanted  to  cry,  and  at  the  next  it  would  be 
merry.  Merik  suddenly  jumped  up  and  began  tap- 
ping with  his  heels  on  the  same  spot,  then,  bran- 
dishing his  arms,  he  moved  on  his  heels  from  the 
table  to  the  stove,  from  the  stove  to  the  chest,  then 
he  bounded  up  as  though  he  had  been  stung,  clicked 
the  heels  of  his  boots  together  in  the  air,  and  began 
going  round  and  round  in  a  crouching  position. 
Lyubka  waved  both  her  arms,  uttered  a  desperate 
shriek,  and  followed  him.  At  first  she  moved  side- 
ways, like  a  snake,  as  though  she  wanted  to  steal  up 
to  someone  and  strike  him  from  behind.  She  tapped 
rapidly  with  her  bare  heels  as  Merik  had  done  with 
the  heels  of  his  boots,  then  she  turned  round  and 
round  like  a  top  and  crouched  down,  and  her  red 
dress  was  blown  out  like  a  bell.  Merik,  looking 
angrily  at  her,  and  showing  his  teeth  in  a  grin,  flew 
towards  her  in  the  same  crouching  posture  as  though 
he  wanted  to  crush  her  with  his  terrible  legs,  while 
she  jumped  up,  flung  back  her  head,  and  waving  her 
arms  as  a  big  bird  does  its  wings,  floated  across  the 
room  scarcely  touching  the  floor.  .  .  . 


The  Horse-Stealers  17 

"  What  a  flame  of  a  girl !  "  thought  Yergunov, 
sitting  on  the  chest,  and  from  there  watching  the 
dance.  "  What  fire !  Give  up  everything  for  her, 
and  it  would  be  too  little.  .  .  ." 

And  he  regretted  that  he  was  a  hospital  assis- 
tant, and  not  a  simple  peasant,  that  he  wore  a  reefer 
coat  and  a  chain  with  a  gilt  key  on  it  instead  of  a 
blue  shirt  with  a  cord  tied  round  the  waist.  Then  he 
could  boldly  have  sung,  danced,  flung  both  arms 
round  Lyubka  as  Merik  did.   .   .  . 

The  sharp  tapping,  shouts,  and  whoops  set  the 
crockery  ringing  in  the  cupboard  and  the  flame  of 
the  candle  dancing. 

The  thread  broke  and  the  beads  were  scattered 
all  over  the  floor,  the  green  kerchief  slipped  off, 
and  Lyubka  was  transformed  into  a  red  cloud  flit- 
ting by  and  flashing  black  eyes,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  in  another  second  Merik's  arms  and  legs 
would  drop  off. 

But  finally  Merik  stamped  for  the  last  time,  and 
stood  still  as  though  turned  to  stone.  Exhausted 
and  almost  breathless,  Lyubka  sank  on  to  his  bosom 
and  leaned  against  him  as  against  a  post,  and  he  put 
his  arms  round  her,  and  looking  into  her  eyes,  said 
tenderly  and  caressingly,  as  though  in  jest: 

"  I'll  find  out  where  your  old  mother's  money  is 
hidden,  I'll  murder  her  and  cut  your  little  throat 
for  you,  and  after  that  I  will  set  fire  to  the  inn. 
.  .  .  People  will  think  you  have  perished  in  the 
fire,  and  with  your  money  I  shall  go  to  Kuban.  I'll 
keep  droves  of  horses  and  flocks  of  sheep.  .  .  ." 

Lyubka  made  no  answer,  but  only  looked  at  him 
with  a  guilty  air,  and  asked: 


18  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

11  And  is  it  nice  in  Kuban,  Merik?  " 

He  said  nothing,  but  went  to  the  chest,  sat  down, 
and  sank  into  thought;  most  likely  he  was  dreaming 
of  Kuban. 

"  It's  time  for  me  to  be  going,"  said  Kalashnikov, 
getting  up.  "  Filya  must  be  waiting  for  me.  Good- 
bye, Lyuba." 

Yergunov  went  out  into  the  yard  to  see  that  Ka- 
lashnikov did  not  go  off  with  his  horse.  The  snow- 
storm still  persisted.  White  clouds  were  floating 
about  the  yard,  their  long  tails  clinging  to  the  rough 
grass  and  the  bushes,  while  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fence  in  the  open  country  huge  giants  in  white  robes 
with  wide  sleeves  were  whirling  round  and  falling  to 
the  ground,  and  getting  up  again  to  wave  their  arms 
and  fight.  And  the  wind,  the  wind!  The  bare 
birches  and  cherry-trees,  unable  to  endure  its  rude 
caresses,  bowed  low  down  to  the  ground  and  wailed: 
"  God,  for  what  sin  hast  Thou  bound  us  to  the  earth 
and  will  not  let  us  go  free?  " 

"  Wo!  "  said  Kalashnikov  sternly,  and  he  got  on 
his  horse;  one  half  of  the  gate  was  opened,  and  by 
it  lay  a  high  snowdrift.  "Well,  get  on!  "  shouted 
Kalashnikov.  His  little  short-legged  nag  set  off, 
and  sank  up  to  its  stomach  in  the  drift  at  once. 
Kalashnikov  was  white  all  over  with  the  snow,  and 
soon  vanished  from  sight  with  his  horse. 

When  Yergunov  went  back  into  the  room,  Lyubka 
was  creeping  about  the  floor  picking  up  her  beads; 
Merik  was  not  there. 

"A  splendid  girl!  "  thought  Yergunov,  as  he  lay 
down  on  the  bench  and  put  his  coat  under  his  head. 
"  Oh,  if  only  Merik  were  not  here."     Lyubka  ex- 


The  Horse-Stealers  19 

cited  him  as  she  crept  about  the  floor  by  the  bench, 
and  he  thought  that  if  Merik  had  not  been  there  he 
would  certainly  have  got  up  and  embraced  her,  and 
then  one  would  see  what  would  happen.  It  was 
true  she  was  only  a  girl,  but  not  likely  to  be  chaste; 
and  even  if  she  were — need  one  stand  on  ceremony 
in  a  den  of  thieves?  Lyubka  collected  her  beads  and 
went  out.  The  candle  burnt  down  and  the  flame 
caught  the  paper  in  the  candlestick.  Yergunov  laid 
his  revolver  and  matches  beside  him,  and  put  out 
the  candle.  The  light  before  the  holy  images  flick- 
ered so  much  that  it  hurt  his  eyes,  and  patches  of 
light  danced  on  the  ceiling,  on  the  floor,  and  on  the 
cupboard,  and  among  them  he  had  visions  of  Lyubka, 
buxom,  full-bosomed:  now  she  was  turning  round 
like  a  top,  now  she  was  exhausted  and  breathless.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  if  the  devils  would  carry  off  that  Merik," 
he  thought. 

The  little  lamp  gave  a  last  flicker,  spluttered,  and 
went  out.  Someone,  it  must  have  been  Merik,  came 
into  the  room  and  sat  down  on  the  bench.  He  puffed 
at  his  pipe,  and  for  an  instant  lighted  up  a  dark 
cheek  with  a  patch  on  it.  Yergunov's  throat  was 
irritated  by  the  horrible  fumes  of  the  tobacco 
smoke. 

"  What  filthy  tobacco  you  have  got — damnation 
take  it!  "  said  Yergunov.  "  It  makes  me  positively 
sick." 

"  I  mix  my  tobacco  with  the  flowers  of  the  oats," 
answered  Merik  after  a  pause.  "  It  is  better  for 
the  chest." 

He  smoked,  spat,  and  went  out  again.  Half  an 
hour  passed,  and  all  at  once  there  was  the  gleam  of 


20  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

a  light  in  the  passage.  Merik  appeared  in  a  coat 
and  cap,  then  Lyubka  with  a  candle  in  her  hand. 

11  Do  stay,  Merik,"  said  Lyubka  in  an  imploring 
voice. 

"  No,  Lyuba,  don't  keep  me." 

"  Listen,  Merik,"  said  Lyubka,  and  her  voice  grew 
soft  and  tender.  "  I  know  you  will  find  mother's 
money,  and  will  do  for  her  and  for  me,  and  will  go 
to  Kuban  and  love  other  girls;  but  God  be  with  you. 
I  only  ask  you  one  thing,  sweetheart :  do  stay !  " 

11  No,  I  want  some  fun  .  .  ."  said  Merik,  fasten- 
ing his  belt. 

"  But  you  have  nothing  to  go  on.  .  .  .  You 
came  on  foot;  what  are  you  going  on?  " 

Merik  bent  down  to  Lyubka  and  whispered  some- 
thing in  her  ear;  she  looked  towards  the  door  and 
laughed  through  her  tears. 

"  He  is  asleep,  the  puffed-up  devil  .   .   ."  she  said. 

Merik  embraced  her,  kissed  her  vigorously,  and 
went  out.  Yergunov  thrust  his  revolver  into  his 
pocket,  jumped  up,  and  ran  after  him. 

"  Get  out  of  the  way!  "  he  said  to  Lyubka,  who 
hurriedly  bolted  the  door  of  the  entry  and  stood 
across  the  threshold.  "  Let  me  pass !  Why  are  you 
standing  here?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  go  out  for?  " 

"  To  have  a  look  at  my  horse." 

Lyubka  gazed  up  at  him  with  a  sly  and  caressing 
look. 

"Why  look  at  it?  You  had  better  look  at  me 
.  .  ."  she  said,  then  she  bent  down  and  touched  with 
her  finger  the  gilt  watch-key  that  hung  on  his  chain. 

"  Let  me  pass,  or  he  will  go  off  on  my  horse,"  said 


The  Horse-Stealers  21 

Yergunov.  "  Let  me  go,  you  devil !  "  he  shouted, 
and  giving  her  an  angry  blow  on  the  shoulder,  he 
pressed  his  chest  against  her  with  all  his  might  to 
push  her  away  from  the  door,  but  she  kept  tight  hold 
of  the  bolt,  and  was  like  iron. 

"Let  me  go!  "  he  shouted,  exhausted;  "he  will 
go  off  with  it,  I  tell  you." 

"Why  should  he?  He  won't."  Breathing  hard 
and  rubbing  her  shoulder,  which  hurt,  she  looked  up 
at  him  again,  flushed  a  little  and  laughed.  "  Don't  go 
away,  dear  heart,"  she  said;  "  I  am  dull  alone." 

Yergunov  looked  into  her  eyes,  hesitated,  and  put 
his  arms  round  her;  she  did  not  resist. 

"  Come,  no  nonsense;  let  me  go,"  he  begged  her. 
She  did  not  speak. 

"  I  heard  you  just  now,"  he  said,  "  telling  Merik 
that  you  love  him." 

"  I  dare  say.  .  .  .  My  heart  knows  who  it  is  I 
love." 

She  put  her  finger  on  the  key  again,  and  said 
softly:  "  Give  me  that." 

Yergunov  unfastened  the  key  and  gave  it  to  her. 
She  suddenly  craned  her  neck  and  listened  with  a 
grave  face,  and  her  expression  struck  Yergunov  as 
cold  and  cunning;  he  thought  of  his  horse,  and  now 
easily  pushed  her  aside  and  ran  out  into  the  yard. 
In  the  shed  a  sleepy  pig  was  grunting  with  lazy  regu- 
larity and  a  cow  was  knocking  her  horn.  Yergunov 
lighted  a  match  and  saw  the  pig,  and  the  cow,  and 
the  dogs,  which  rushed  at  him  on  all  sides  at  seeing 
the  light,  but  there  was  no  trace  of  the  horse.  Shout- 
ing and  waving  his  arms  at  the  dogs,  stumbling  over 
the  drifts  and  sticking  in  the  snow,  he  ran  out  at  the 


22  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

gate  and  fell  to  gazing  into  the  darkness.  He 
strained  his  eyes  to  the  utmost,  and  saw  only  the 
snow  flying  and  the  snowflakes  distinctly  forming 
into  all  sorts  of  shapes;  at  one  moment  the  white, 
laughing  face  of  a  corpse  would  peep  out  of  the 
darkness,  at  the  next  a  white  horse  would  gallop  by 
with  an  Amazon  in  a  muslin  dress  upon  it,  at  the 
next  a  string  of  white  swans  would  fly  overhead.  .  .  . 
Shaking  with  anger  and  cold,  and  not  knowing  what 
to  do,  Yergunov  fired  his  revolver  at  the  dogs,  and 
did  not  hit  one  of  them;  then  he  rushed  back  to  the 
house. 

When  he  went  into  the  entry  he  distinctly  heard 
someone  scurry  out  of  the  room  and  bang  the  door. 
It  was  dark  in  the  room.  Yergunov  pushed  against 
the  door;  it  was  locked.  Then,  lighting  match 
after  match,  he  rushed  back  into  the  entry,  from 
there  into  the  kitchen,  and  from  the  kitchen  into  a 
little  room  where  all  the  walls  were  hung  with  petti- 
coats and  dresses,  where  there  was  a  smell  of  corn- 
flowers and  fennel,  and  a  bedstead  with  a  perfect 
mountain  of  pillows,  standing  in  the  corner  by  the 
stove;  this  must  have  been  the  old  mother's  room. 
From  there  he  passed  into  another  little  room,  and 
here  he  saw  Lyubka.  She  was  lying  on  a  chest, 
covered  with  a  gay-coloured  patchwork  cotton  quilt, 
pretending  to  be  asleep.  A  little  ikon-lamp  was 
burning  in  the  corner  above  the  pillow. 

"  Where  is  my  horse?  "  Yergunov  asked. 

Lyubka  did  not  stir. 

"  Where  is  my  horse,  I  am  asking  you?  "  Yergu- 
nov repeated  still  more  sternly,  and  he  tore  the  quilt 
off  her.     "  I  am  asking  you,  she-devil!  "  he  shouted. 


The  Horse-Stealers  23 

She  jumped  up  on  her  knees,  and  with  one  hand 
holding  her  shift  and  with  the  other  trying  to  clutch 
th<>  quilt,  huddled  against  the  wall.  .  .  .  She  looked 
at  Yergunov  with  repulsion  and  terror  in  her  eyes, 
and,  like  a  wild  beast  in  a  trap,  kept  cunning  watch 
on  his  faintest  movement. 

"  Tell  me  where  my  horse  is,  or  I'll  knock  the 
life  out  of  you,"  shouted  Yergunov. 

"Get  away,  dirty  brute!  "  she  said  in  a  hoarse 
voice. 

Yergunov  seized  her  by  the  shift  near  the  neck 
and  tore  it.  And  then  he  could  not  restrain  himself, 
and  with  all  his  might  embraced  the  girl.  But  hiss- 
ing with  fury,  she  slipped  out  of  his  arms,  and  free- 
ing one  hand — the  other  was  tangled  in  the  torn 
shift — hit  him  a  blow  with  her  fist  on  the  skull. 

His  head  was  dizzy  with  the  pain,  there  was  a 
ringing  and  rattling  in  his  ears,  he  staggered  back, 
and  at  that  moment  received  another  blow — this 
time  on  the  temple.  Reeling  and  clutching  at  the 
doorposts,  that  he  might  not  fall,  he  made  his  way 
to  the  room  where  his  things  were,  and  lay  down  on 
the  bench;  then  after  lying  for  a  little  time,  took  the 
matchbox  out  of  his  pocket  and  began  lighting  match 
after  match  for  no  object:  he  lit  it,  blew  it  out,  and 
threw  it  under  the  table,  and  went  on  till  all  the 
matches  were  gone. 

Meanwhile  the  air  began  to  turn  blue  outside,  the 
cocks  began  to  crow,  but  his  head  still  ached,  and 
there  was  an  uproar  in  his  ears  as  though  he  were 
sitting  under  a  railway  bridge  and  hearing  the  trains 
passing  over  his  head.  He  got,  somehow,  into  his 
coat  and  cap;  the  saddle  and  the  bundle  of  his  pur- 


24  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

chases  he  could  not  find,  his  knapsack  was  empty:  it 
was  not  for  nothing  that  someone  had  scurried  out  of 
the  room  when  he  came  in  from  the  yard. 

He  took  a  poker  from  the  kitchen  to  keep  off  the 
dogs,  and  went  out  into  the  yard,  leaving  the  door 
open.  The  snow-storm  had  subsided  and  it  was 
calm  outside.  .  .  .  When  he  went  out  at  the  gate, 
the  white  plain  looked  dead,  and  there  was  not  a 
single  bird  in  the  morning  sky.  On  both  sides  of  the 
road  and  in  the  distance  there  were  bluish  patches 
of  young  copse. 

Yergunov  began  thinking  how  he  would  be  greeted 
at  the  hospital  and  what  the  doctor  would  say  to 
him;  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  think  of  that, 
and  to  prepare  beforehand  to  answer  questions  he 
would  be  asked,  but  this  thought  grew  blurred  and 
slipped  away.  He  walked  along  thinking  of  nothing 
but  Lyubka,  of  the  peasants  with  whom  he  had 
passed  the  night;  he  remembered  how,  after  Lyubka 
struck  him  the  second  time,  she  had  bent  down  to 
the  floor  for  the  quilt,  and  how  her  loose  hair  had 
fallen  on  the  floor.  His  mind  was  in  a  maze,  and  he 
wondered  why  there  were  in  the  world  doctors,  hos- 
pital assistants,  merchants,  clerks,  and  peasants  in- 
stead of  simple  free  men?  There  are,  to  be  sure, 
free  birds,  free  beasts,  a  free  Merik,  and  they  are 
not  afraid  of  anyone,  and  don't  need  anyone !  And 
whose  idea  was  it,  who  had  decreed  that  one  must 
get  up  in  the  morning,  dine  at  midday,  go  to  bed  in 
the  evening;  that  a  doctor  takes  precedence  of  a 
hospital  assistant;  that  one  must  live  in  rooms  and 
love  only  one's  wife?  And  why  not  the  contrary — 
dine  at  night  and  sleep  in  the  day?    Ah,  to  jump  on 


The  Horse-Stealers  25 

a  horse  without  enquiring  whose  it  is,  to  ride  races 
with  the  wind  like  a  devil,  over  fields  and  forests 
and  ravines,  to  make  love  to  girls,  to  mock  at 
everyone.  .  .  . 

Yergunov  thrust  the  poker  into  the  snow,  pressed 
his  forehead  to  the  cold  white  trunk  of  a  birch-tree, 
and  sank  into  thought;  and  his  grey,  monotonous 
life,  his  wages,  his  subordinate  position,  the  dis- 
pensary, the  everlasting  to-do  with  the  bottles  and 
blisters,  struck  him  as  contemptible,  sickening. 

"  Who  says  it's  a  sin  to  enjoy  oneself?  "  he  asked 
himself  with  vexation.  "  Those  who  say  that  have 
never  lived  in  freedom  like  Merik  and  Kalashnikov, 
and  have  never  loved  Lyubka;  they  have  been  beg- 
gars all  their  lives,  have  lived  without  any  pleasure, 
and  have  only  loved  their  wives,  who  are  like  frogs." 
And  he  thought  about  himself  that  he  had  not 
hitherto  been  a  thief,  a  swindler,  or  even  a  brigand, 
simply  because  he  could  not,  or  had  not  yet  met  with 

a  suitable  opportunity. 

*  *  *  * 

A  year  and  a  half  passed.  In  spring,  after  Easter, 
Yergunov,  who  had  long  before  been  dismissed  from 
the  hospital  and  was  hanging  about  without  a  job, 
came  out  of  the  tavern  in  Ryepino  and  sauntered 
aimlessly  along  the  street. 

He  went  out  into  the  open  country.  Here  there 
was  the  scent  of  spring,  and  a  warm  caressing  wind 
was  blowing.  The  calm,  starry  night  looked  down 
from  the  sky  on  the  earth.  My  God,  how  infinite 
the  depth  of  the  sky,  and  with  what  fathomless  im- 
mensity it  stretched  over  the  world !  The  world 
is  created  well  enough,  only  why  and  with  what  right 


26  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

do  people,  thought  Yergunov,  divide  their  fellows 
into  the  sober  and  the  drunken,  the  employed  and 
the  dismissed,  and  so  on.  Why  do  the  sober  and 
well  fed  sleep  comfortably  in  their  homes  while  the 
drunken  and  the  hungry  must  wander  about  the  coun- 
try without  a  refuge?  Why  was  it  that  if  anyone 
had  not  a  job  and  did  not  get  a  salary  he  had  to  go 
hungry,  without  clothes  and  boots  ?  Whose  idea  was 
it?  Why  was  it  the  birds  and  the  wild  beasts  in  the 
woods  did  not  have  jobs  and  get  salaries,  but  lived 
as  they  pleased? 

Far  away  in  the  sky  a  beautiful  crimson  glow  lay 
quivering,  stretched  wide  over  the  horizon.  Yer- 
gunov stopped,  and  for  a  long  time  he  gazed  at  it, 
and  kept  wondering  why  was  it  that  if  he  had  car- 
ried off  someone  else's  samovar  the  day  before  and 
sold  it  for  drink  in  the  taverns  it  would  be  a  sin? 
Why  was  it? 

Two  carts  drove  by  on  the  road;  in  one  of  them 
there  was  a  woman  asleep,  in  the  other  sat  an  old 
man  without  a  cap  on.   .   .   . 

"Grandfather,  where  is  that  fire?"  asked  Yer- 
gunov. 

"  Andrey  Tchirikov's  inn,"  answered  the  old  man. 

And  Yergunov  recalled  what  had  happened  to 
him  eighteen  months  before  in  the  winter,  in  that 
very  inn,  and  how  Merik  had  boasted;  and  he  imag- 
ined the  old  woman  and  Lyubka,  with  their  throats 
cut,  burning,  and  he  envied  Merik.  And  when  he 
walked  back  to  the  tavern,  looking  at  the  houses  of 
the  rich  publicans,  cattle-dealers,  and  blacksmiths, 
he  reflected  how  nice  it  would  be  to  steal  by  night 
into  some  rich  man's  house! 


WARD  NO.  6 


WARD  NO.  6 


In  the  hospital  yard  there  stands  a  small  lodge 
surrounded  by  a  perfect  forest  of  burdocks,  nettles, 
and  wild  hemp.  Its  roof  is  rusty,  the  chimney  is 
tumbling  down,  the  steps  at  the  front-door  are  rot- 
ting away  and  overgrown  with  grass,  and  there  are 
only  traces  left  of  the  stucco.  The  front  of  the 
lodge  faces  the  hospital;  at  the  back  it  looks  out 
into  the  open  country,  from  which  it  is  separated  by 
the  grey  hospital  fence  with  nails  on  it.  These  nails, 
with  their  points  upwards,  and  the  fence,  and  the 
lodge  itself,  have  that  peculiar,  desolate,  God-for- 
saken look  which  is  only  found  in  our  hospital  and 
prison  buildings. 

If  you  are  not  afraid  of  being  stung  by  the  nettles, 
come  by  the  narrow  footpath  that  leads  to  the  lodge, 
and  let  us  see  what  is  going  on  inside.  Opening  the 
first  door,  we  walk  into  the  entry.  Here  along  the 
walls  and  by  the  stove  every  sort  of  hospital  rubbish 
lies  littered  about.  Mattresses,  old  tattered  dress- 
ing-gowns, trousers,  blue  striped  shirts,  boots  and 
shoes  no  good  for  anything — all  these  remnants  are 
piled  up  in  heaps,  mixed  up  and  crumpled,  moulder- 
ing and  giving  out  a  sickly  smell. 

The  porter,  Nikita,  an  old  soldier  wearing  rusty 

29 


30  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

good-conduct  stripes,  is  always  lying  on  the  litter 
with  a  pipe  between  his  teeth.  He  has  a  grim,  surly, 
battered-looking  face,  overhanging  eyebrows  which 
give  him  the  expression  of  a  sheep-dog  of  the 
steppes,  and  a  red  nose;  he  is  short  and  looks  thin 
and  scraggy,  but  he  is  of  imposing  deportment  and 
his  fists  are  vigorous.  He  belongs  to  the  class  of 
simple-hearted,  practical,  and  dull-witted  people, 
prompt  in  carrying  out  orders,  who  like  discipline 
better  than  anything  in  the  world,  and  so  are  con- 
vinced that  it  is  their  duty  to  beat  people.  He 
showers  blows  on  the  face,  on  the  chest,  on  the  back, 
on  whatever  comes  first,  and  is  convinced  that  there 
would  be  no  order  in  the  place  if  he  did  not. 

Next  you  come  into  a  big,  spacious  room  which 
fills  up  the  whole  lodge  except  for  the  entry.  Here 
the  walls  are  painted  a  dirty  blue,  the  ceiling  is  as 
sooty  as  in  a  hut  without  a  chimney — it  is  evident 
that  in  the  winter  the  stove  smokes  and  the  room  is 
full  of  fumes.  The  windows  are  disfigured  by  iron 
gratings  on  the  inside.  The  wooden  floor  is  grey 
and  full  of  splinters.  There  is  a  stench  of  sour  cab- 
bage, of  smouldering  wicks,  of  bugs,  and  of  am- 
monia, and  for  the  first  minute  this  stench  gives 
you  the  impression  of  having  walked  into  a 
menagerie.   .   .  . 

There  are  bedsteads  screwed  to  the  floor.  Men 
in  blue  hospital  dressing-gowns,  and  wearing  night- 
caps in  the  old  style,  are  sitting  and  lying  on  them. 
These  are  the  lunatics. 

There  are  five  of  them  in  all  here.  Only  one  is 
of  the  upper  class,  the  rest  are  all  artisans.  The 
one  nearest  the  door — a  tall,  lean  workman  with 


Ward  No.  6  31 

shining  red  whiskers  and  tear-stained  eyes — sits 
with  his  head  propped  on  his  hand,  staring  at  the 
same  point.  Day  and  night  he  grieves,  shaking  his 
head,  sighing  and  smiling  bitterly.  He  rarely  takes 
a  part  in  conversation  and  usually  makes  no  answer 
to  questions;  he  eats  and  drinks  mechanically  when 
food  is  offered  him.  From  his  agonizing,  throbbing 
cough,  his  thinness,  and  the  flush  on  his  cheeks,  one 
may  judge  that  he  is  in  the  first  stage  of  consump- 
tion. Next  him  is  a  little,  alert,  very  lively  old  man, 
with  a  pointed  beard  and  curly  black  hair  like  a 
negro's.  By  day  he  walks  up  and  down  the  ward 
from  window  to  window,  or  sits  on  his  bed,  cross- 
legged  like  a  Turk,  and,  ceaselessly  as  a  bullfinch 
whistles,  softly  sings  and  titters.  He  shows  his 
childish  gaiety  and  lively  character  at  night  also 
when  he  gets  up  to  say  his  prayers — that  is,  to  beat 
himself  on  the  chest  with  his  fists,  and  to  scratch 
with  his  fingers  at  the  door.  This  is  the  Jew  Moi- 
seika,  an  imbecile,  who  went  crazy  twenty  years  ago 
when  his  hat  factory  was  burnt  down. 

And  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  Ward  No.  6,  he  is 
the  only  one  who  is  allowed  to  go  out  of  the  lodge, 
and  even  out  of  the  yard  into  the  street.  He  has 
enjoyed  this  privilege  for  years,  probably  because 
he  is  an  old  inhabitant  of  the  hospital — a  quiet,  harm- 
less imbecile,  the  buffoon  of  the  town,  where  people 
are  used  to  seeing  him  surrounded  by  boys  and  dogs. 
In  his  wretched  gown,  in  his  absurd  night-cap,  and 
in  slippers,  sometimes  with  bare  legs  and  even  with- 
out trousers,  he  walks  about  the  streets,  stopping  at 
the  gates  and  little  shops,  and  begging  for  a  copper. 
In  one  place  they  will  give  him  some  kvass,  in  an- 


32  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

other  some  bread,  in  another  a  copper,  so  that  he 
generally  goes  back  to  the  ward  feeling  rich  and 
well  fed.  Everything  that  he  brings  back  Nikita 
takes  from  him  for  his  own  benefit.  The  soldier 
does  this  roughly,  angrily  turning  the  Jew's  pockets 
inside  out,  and  calling  God  to  witness  that  he  will 
not  let  him  go  into  the  street  again,  and  that  breach 
of  the  regulations  is  worse  to  him  than  anything  in 
the  world. 

Moiseika  likes  to  make  himself  useful.  He  gives 
his  companions  water,  and  covers  them  up  when 
they  are  asleep;  he  promises  each  of  them  to  bring 
him  back  a  kopeck,  and  to  make  him  a  new  cap;  he 
feeds  with  a  spoon  his  neighbour  on  the  left,  who  is 
paralyzed.  He  acts  in  this  way,  not  from  com- 
passion nor  from  any  considerations  of  a  humane 
kind,  but  through  imitation,  unconsciously  dominated 
by  Gromov,  his  neighbour  on  the  right  hand. 

Ivan  Dmitritch  Gromov,  a  man  of  thirty-three, 
who  is  a  gentleman  by  birth,  and  has  been  a  court 
usher  and  provincial  secretary,  suffers  from  the 
mania  of  persecution.  He  either  lies  curled  up  in 
bed,  or  walks  from  corner  to  corner  as  though  for 
exercise;  he  very  rarely  sits  down.  He  is  always 
excitedj  agitated,  and  overwrought  by  a  sort  of 
vague,  undefined  expectation.  The  faintest  rustle 
in  the  entry  or  shout  in  the  yard  is  enough  to  make 
him  raise  his  head  and  begin  listening:  whether  they 
are  coming  for  him,  whether  they  are  looking  for 
him.  And  at  such  times  his  face  expresses  the 
utmost  uneasiness  and  repulsion. 

I  like  his  broad  face  with  its  high  cheek-bones, 
always  pale  and  unhappy,  and  reflecting,  as  though 


Ward  No.  6  33 

in  a  mirror,  a  soul  tormented  by  conflict  and  long- 
continued  terror.  His  grimaces  are  strange  and 
abnormal,  but  the  delicate  lines  traced  on  his  face  by- 
profound,  genuine  suffering  show  intelligence  and 
sense,  and  there  is  a  warm  and  healthy  light  in  his 
eyes.  I  like  the  man  himself,  courteous,  anxious  to 
be  of  use,  and  extraordinarily  gentle  to  everyone 
except  Nikita.  When  anyone  drops  a  button  or  a 
spoon,  he  jumps  up  from  his  bed  quickly  and  picks  it 
up;  every  day  he  says  good-morning  to  his  compan- 
ions, and  when  he  goes  to  bed  he  wishes  them 
good-night. 

Besides  his  continually  overwrought  condition 
and  his  grimaces,  his  madness  shows  itself  in  the 
following  way  also.  Sometimes  in  the  evenings  he 
wraps  himself  in  his  dressing-gown,  and,  trembling 
all  over,  with  his  teeth  chattering,  begins  walking 
rapidly  from  corner  to  corner  and  between  the  bed- 
steads. It  seems  as  though  he  is  in  a  violent  fever. 
From  the  way  he  suddenly  stops  and  glances  at  his 
companions,  it  can  be  seen  that  he  is  longing  to  say 
something  very  important,  but,  apparently  reflecting 
that  they  would  not  listen,  or  would  not  understand 
him,  he  shakes  his  head  impatiently  and  goes  on 
pacing  up  and  down.  But  soon  the  desire  to  speak 
gets  the  upper  hand  of  every  consideration,  and  he 
will  let  himself  go  and  speak  fervently  .and  passion- 
ately. His  talk  is  disordered  and  feverish  like  de- 
lirium, disconnected,  and  not  always  intelligible,  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  something  extremely  fine  may  be 
fejt  in  it,  both  in  the  words  and  the  voice.  When  he 
talks  you  recognize  in  him  the  lunatic  and  the  man. 
It  is  difficult  to  reproduce  on  paper  his  insane  talk. 


34  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

He  speaks  of  the  baseness  of  mankind,  of  violence 
trampling  on  justice,  of  the  glorious  life  which  will 
one  day  be  upon  earth,  of  the  window-gratings,  which 
remind  him  every  minute  of  the  stupidity  and  cruelty 
o^  oppressors.  It  makes  a  disorderly,  incoherent 
potpourri  of  themes  old  but  not  yet  out  of  date. 

II 

Some  twelve  or  fifteen  years  ago  an  official  called 
Gromov,  a  highly  respectable  and  prosperous  per- 
son, was  living  in  his  own  house  in  the  principal 
street  of  the  town.  He  had  two  sons,  Sergey  and 
Ivan.  When  Sergey  was  a  student  in  his  fourth 
year  he  was  taken  ill  with  galloping  consumption 
and  died,  and  his  death  was,  as  it  were,  the  first  of 
a  whole  series  of  calamities  which  suddenly  showered 
on  the  Gromov  family.  Within  a  week  of  Sergey's 
funeral  the  old  father  was  put  on  his  trial  for  fraud 
and  misappropriation,  and  he  died  of  typhoid  in  the 
prison  hospital  soon  afterwards.  The  house,  with 
all  their  belongings,  was  sold  by  auction,  and  Ivan 
Dmitritch  and  his  mother  were  left  entirely  without 
means. 

Hitherto  in  his  father's  lifetime,  Ivan  Dmitritch, 
who  was  studying  in  the  University  of  Petersburg, 
had  received  an  allowance  of  sixty  or  seventy  roubles 
a  month,  and  had  had  no  conception  of  poverty; 
now  he  had  to  make  an  abrupt  change  in  his  life.  He 
had  to  spend  his  time  from  morning  to  night  giving 
lessons  for  next  to  nothing,  to  work  at  copying,  and 
with  all  that  to  go  hungry,  as  all  his  earnings  were 
sent  to  keep  his  mother.     Ivan  Dmitritch  could  not 


Ward  No.  6  35 

stand  such  a  life;  he  lost  heart  and  strength,  and, 
giving  up  the  university,  went  home. 

Here,  through  interest,  he  obtained  the  post  of 
teacher  in  the  district  school,  but  could  not  get  on 
with  his  colleagues,  was  not  liked  by  the  boys,  and 
soon  gave  up  the  post.  His  mother  died.  He  was 
for  six  months  without  work,  living  on  nothing  but 
bread  and  water;  then  he  became  a  court  usher.  He 
kept  this  post  until  he  was  dismissed  owing  to  his 
illness. 

He  had  never  even  in  his  young  student  days  given 
the  impression  of  being  perfectly  healthy.  He  had 
always  been  pale,  thin,  and  given  to  catching  cold; 
he  ate  little  and  slept  badly.  A  single  glass  of  wine 
went  to  his  head  and  made  him  hysterical.  He 
always  had  a  craving  for  society,  but,  owing  to  his 
irritable  temperament  and  suspiciousness,  he  never 
became  very  intimate  with  anyone,  and  had  no 
friends.  He  always  spoke  with  contempt  of  his 
fellow-townsmen,  saying  that  their  coarse  ignorance 
and  sleepy  animal  existence  seemed  to  him  loath- 
some and  horrible.  He  spoke  in  a  loud  tenor,  with 
heat,  and  invariably  either  with  scorn  and  indigna- 
tion, or  with  wonder  and  enthusiasm,  and  always 
with  perfect  sincerity.  Whatever  one  talked  to  him 
about  he  always  brought  it  round  to  the  same  sub- 
ject: that  life  was  dull  and  stifling  in  the  town;  that 
the  townspeople  had  no  lofty  interests,  but  lived 
a  dingy,  meaningless  life,  diversified  by  violence, 
coarse  profligacy,  and  hypocrisy;  that  scoundrels 
were  well  fed  and  clothed,  while  honest  men  lived 
from  hand  to  mouth;  that  they  needed  schools, 
a  progressive  local  paper,  a  theatre,  public  lectures, 


36  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  co-ordination  of  the  intellectual  elements;  that 
society  must  see  its  failings  and  be  horrified.  In 
his  criticisms  of  people  he  laid  on  the  colours  thick, 
using  only  black  and  white,  and  no  fine  shades;  man- 
kind was  divided  for  him  into  honest  men  and  scoun- 
drels: there  was  nothing  in  between.  He  always 
spoke  with  passion  and  enthusiasm  of  women  and 
of  love,  but  he  had  never  been  in  love. 

In  spite  of  the  severity  of  his  judgments  and  his 
nervousness,  he  was  liked,  and  behind  his  back  was 
spoken  of  affectionately  as  Vanya.  His  innate  re- 
finement and  readiness  to  be  of  service,  his  good 
breeding,  his  moral  purity,  and  his  shabby  coat,  his 
frail  appearance  and  family  misfortunes,  aroused  a 
kind,  warm,  sorrowful  feeling.  Moreover,  he  was 
well  educated  and  well  read;  according  to  the  towns- 
people's notions,  he  knew  everything,  and  was  in 
their  eyes  something  like  a  walking  encyclopaedia. 

He  had  read  a  great  deal.  He  would  sit  at  the 
club,  nervously  pulling  at  his  beard  and  looking 
through  the  magazines  and  books;  and  from  his 
face  one  could  see  that  he  was  not  reading,  but 
devouring  the  pages  without  giving  himself  time  to 
digest  what  he  read.  It  must  be  supposed  that 
reading  was  one  of  his  morbid  habits,  as  he  fell  upon 
anything  that  came  into  his  hands  with  equal  avidity, 
even  last  year's  newspapers  and  calendars.  At  home 
he  always  read  lying  down. 

III. 

One  autumn  morning  Ivan  Dmitritch,  turning  up 
the  collar  of  his  greatcoat  and  splashing  through  the 


Ward  No.  6  37 

mud,  made  his  way  by  side-streets  and  back  lanes  to 
see  some  artisan,  and  to  collect  some  payment  that 
was  owing.  He  was  in  a  gloomy  mood,  as  he  always 
was  in  the  morning.  In  one  of  the  side-streets  he 
was  met  by  two  convicts  in  fetters  and  four  soldiers 
with  rifles  in  charge  of  them.  Ivan  Dmitritch  had 
very  often  met  convicts  before,  and  they  had  always 
excited  feelings  of  compassion  and  discomfort  in 
him;  but  now  this  meeting  made  a  peculiar,  strange 
impression  on  him.  It  suddenly  seemed  to  him  for 
some  reason  that  he,  too,  might  be  put  into  fetters 
and  led  through  the  mud  to  prison  like  that.  After 
visiting  the  artisan,  on  the  way  home  he  met  near 
the  post  office  a  police  superintendent  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, who  greeted  him  and  walked  a  few  paces  along 
the  street  with  him,  and  for  some  reason  this  seemed 
to  him  suspicious.  At  home  he  could  not  get  the 
convicts  or  the  soldiers  with  their  rifles  out  of  his 
head  all  day,  and  an  unaccountable  inward  agitation 
prevented  him  from  reading  or  concentrating  his 
mind.  In  the  evening  he  did  not  light  his  lamp,  and 
at  night  he  could  not  sleep,  but  kept  thinking  that  he 
might  be  arrested,  put  into  fetters,  and  thrown  into 
prison.  He  did  not  know  of  any  harm  he  had  done, 
and  could  be  certain  that  he  would  never  be  guilty 
of  murder,  arson,  or  theft  in  the  future  either;  but 
was  it  not  easy  to  commit  a  crime  by  accident,  uncon- 
sciously, and  was  not  false  witness  always  possible, 
and,  indeed,  miscarriage  of  justice  ?  It  was  not  with- 
out good  reason  that  the  agelong  experience  of  the 
simple  people  teaches  that  beggary  and  prison  are  ills 
none  can  be  safe  from.  A  judicial  mistake  is  very 
possible  as  legal  proceedings  are  conducted  nowa- 


38 


The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


days,  and  there  is  nothing  to  be  wondered  at  in  it. 
People  who  have  an  official,  professional  relation 
to  other  men's  sufferings — for  instance,  judges,  po- 
lice officers,  doctors — in  course  of  time,  through 
habit,  grow  so  callous  that  they  cannot,  even  if  they 
wish  it,  take  any  but  a  formal  attitude  to  their 
clients;  in  this  respect  they  are  not  different  from 
the  peasant  who  slaughters  sheep  and  calves  in  the 
back-yard,  and  does  not  notice  the  blood.  With  this 
formal,  soulless  attitude  to  human  personality  the 
judge  needs  but  one  thing — time — in  order  to  de- 
prive an  innocent  man  of  all  rights  of  property,  and 
to  condemn  him  to  penal  servitude.  Only  the  time 
spent  on  performing  certain  formalities  for  which 
the  judge  is  paid  his  salary,  and  then — it  is  all  over. 
Then  you  may  look  in  vain  for  justice  and  protection 
in  this  dirty,  wretched  little  town  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  from  a  railway  station!  And,  indeed,  is 
it  not  absurd  even  to  think  of  justice  when  every  kind 
of  violence  is  accepted  by  society  as  a  rational  and 
consistent  necessity,  and  every  act  of  mercy — for 
instance,  a  verdict  of  acquittal — calls  forth  a  perfect 
outburst  of  dissatisfied  and  revengeful  feeling? 

In  the  morning  Ivan  Dmitritch  got  up  from  his 
bed  in  a  state  of  horror,  with  cold  perspiration  on 
his  forehead,  completely  convinced  that  he  might  be 
arrested  any  minute.  Since  his  gloomy  thoughts  of 
yesterday  had  haunted  him  so  long,  he  thought,  it 
must  be  that  there  was  some  truth  in  them.  They 
could  not,  indeed,  have  come  into  his  mind  without 
any  grounds  whatever. 

A  policeman  walking  slowly  passed  by  the  win- 
dows: that  was  not  for  nothing.     Here  were  two 


Ward  No.  6  39 

men  standing  still  and  silent  near  the  house.  Why 
were  they  silent?  And  agonizing  days  and  nights 
followed  for  Ivan  Dmitritch.  Everyone  who  passed 
by  the  windows  or  came  into  the  yard  seemed  to  him 
a  spy  or  a  detective.  At  midday  the  chief  of  the 
police  usually  drove  down  the  street  with  a  pair  of 
horses;  he  was  going  from  his  estate  near  the  town 
to  the  police  department;  but  Ivan  Dmitritch  fan- 
cied every  time  that  he  was  driving  especially  quickly, 
and  that  he  had  a  peculiar  expression :  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  in  haste  to  announce  that  there  was  a 
very  important  criminal  in  the  town.  Ivan  Dmit- 
ritch started  at  every  ring  at  the  bell  and  knock  at 
the  gate,  and  was  agitated  whenever  he  came  upon 
anyone  new  at  his  landlady's;  when  he  met  police 
officers  and  gendarmes  he  smiled  and  began  whis- 
tling so  as  to  seem  unconcerned.  He  could  not  sleep 
for  whole  nights  in  succession  expecting  to  be  ar- 
rested, but  he  snored  loudly  and  sighed  as  though  in 
deep  sleep,  that  his  landlady  might  think  he  was 
asleep ;  for  if  he  could  not  sleep  it  meant  that  he  was 
tormented  by  the  stings  of  conscience — what  a  piece 
of  evidence !  Facts  and  common  sense  persuaded 
him  that  all  these  terrors  were  nonsense  and  mor- 
bidity, that  if  one  looked  at  the  matter  more  broadly 
there  was  nothing  really  terrible  in  arrest  and  im- 
prisonment— so  long  as  the  conscience  is  at  ease; 
but  the  more  sensibly  and  logically  he  reasoned,  the 
more  acute  and  agonizing  his  mental  distress  became. 
It  might  be  compared  with  the  story  of  a  hermit 
who  tried  to  cut  a  dwelling-place  for  himself  in  a 
virgin  forest;  the  more  zealously  he  worked  with 
his  axe,  the  thicker  the  forest  grew.     In  the  end 


40  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Ivan  Dmitritch,  seeing  it  was  useless,  gave  up  rea- 
soning altogether,  and  abandoned  himself  entirely  to 
despair  and  terror. 

He  began  to  avoid  people  and  to  seek  solitude. 
His  official  work  had  been  distasteful  to  him  before  : 
now  it  became  unbearable  to  him.  He  was  afraid 
they  would  somehow  get  him  into  trouble,  would 
put  a  bribe  in  his  pocket  unnoticed  and  then  denounce 
him,  or  that  he  would  accidentally  make  a  mistake 
in  official  papers  that  would  appear  to  be  fraudulent, 
or  would  lose  other  people's  money.  It  is  strange 
that  his  imagination  had  never  at  other  times  been 
so  agile  and  inventive  as  now,  when  every  day  he 
thought  of  thousands  of  different  reasons  for  being 
seriously  anxious  over  his  freedom  and  honour;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  his  interest  in  the  outer  world,  in 
books  in  particular,  grew  sensibly  fainter,  and  his 
memory  began  to  fail  him. 

In  the  spring  when  the  snow  melted  there  were 
found  in  the  ravine  near  the  cemetery  two  half- 
decomposed  corpses — the  bodies  of  an  old  woman 
and  a  boy  bearing  the  traces  of  death  by  violence. 
Nothing  was  talked  of  but  these  bodies  and  their 
unknown  murderers.  That  people  might  not  think 
he  had  been  guilty  of  the  crime,  Ivan  Dmitritch 
walked  about  the  streets,  smiling,  and  when  he  met 
acquaintances  he  turned  pale,  flushed,  and  began 
declaring  that  there  was  no  greater  crime  than  the 
murder  of  the  weak  and  defenceless.  But  this  du- 
plicity soon  exhausted  him,  and  after  some  reflection 
he  decided  that  in  his  position  the  best  thing  to  do 
was  to  hide  in  his  landlady's  cellar.  He  sat  in  the 
cellar  all  day  and  then  all  night,  then  another  day, 


Ward  No.  6  41 

was  fearfully  cold,  and  waiting  till  dusk,  stole 
secretly  like  a  thief  back  to  his  room.  He  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  till  daybreak,  listening  with- 
out stirring.  Very  early  in  the  morning,  before  sun- 
rise, some  workmen  came  into  the  house.  Ivan 
Dmitritch  knew  perfectly  well  that  they  had  come  to 
mend  the  stove  in  the  kitchen,  but  terror  told  him 
that  they  were  police  officers  disguised  as  workmen. 
He  slipped  stealthily  out  of  the  flat,  and,  overcome 
by  terror,  ran  along  the  street  without  his  cap  and 
coat.  Dogs  raced  after  him  barking,  a  peasant 
shouted  somewhere  behind  him,  the  wind  whistled 
in  his  ears,  and  it  seemed  to  Ivan  Dmitritch  that  the 
force  and  violence  of  the  whole  world  was  massed 
together  behind  his  back  and  was  chasing  after  him. 

He  was  stopped  and  brought  home,  and  his  land- 
lady sent  for  a  doctor.  Doctor  Andrey  Yefimitch, 
of  whom  we  shall  have  more  to  say  hereafter,  pre- 
scribed cold  compresses  on  his  head  and  laurel  drops, 
shook  his  head,  and  went  away,  telling  the  landlady 
he  should  not  come  again,  as  one  should  not  interfere 
with  people  who  are  going  out  of  their  minds.  As 
he  had  not  the  means  to  live  at  home  and  be  nursed, 
Ivan  Dmitritch  was  soon  sent  to  the  hospital,  and 
was  there  put  into  the  ward  for  venereal  patients. 
He  could  not  sleep  at  night,  was  full  of  whims  and 
fancies,  and  disturbed  the  patients,  and  was  soon 
afterwards,  by  Andrey  Yefimitch's  orders,  trans- 
ferred to  Ward  No.  6. 

Within  a  year  Ivan  Dmitritch  was  completely 
forgotten  in  the  town,  and  his  books,  heaped  up  by 
his  landlady  in  a  sledge  in  the  shed,  were  pulled  to 
pieces  by  boys. 


42  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


IV 

Ivan  Dmitritch's  neighbour  on  the  left  hand 
is,  as  I  have  said  already,  the  Jew  Moiseika; 
his  neighbour  on  the  right  hand  is  a  peasant  so 
rolling  in  fat  that  he  is  almost  spherical,  with  a 
blankly  stupid  face,  utterly  devoid  of  thought. 
This  is  a  motionless,  gluttonous,  unclean  animal 
who  has  long  ago  lost  all  powers  of  thought  or 
feeling.  An  acrid,  stifling  stench  always  comes 
from  him. 

Nikita,  who  has  to  clean  up  after  him,  beats  him 
terribly  with  all  his  might,  not  sparing  his  fists;  and 
what  is  dreadful  is  not  his  being  beaten — that  one 
can  get  used  to — but  the  fact  that  this  stupefied 
creature  does  not  respond  to  the  blows  with  a  sound 
or  a  movement,  nor  by  a  look  in  the  eyes,  but  only 
sways  a  little  like  a  heavy  barrel. 

The  fifth  and  last  inhabitant  of  Ward  No.  6  is  a 
man  of  the  artisan  class  who  has  once  been  a  sorter 
in  the  post  office,  a  thinnish,  fair  little  man  with  a 
good-natured  but  rather  sly  face.  To  judge  from 
the  clear,  cheerful  look  in  his  calm  and  intelligent 
eyes,  he  has  some  pleasant  idea  in  his  mind,  and  has 
some  very  important  and  agreeable  secret.  He  has 
under  his  pillow  and  under  his  mattress  something 
that  he  never  shows  anyone,  not  from  fear  of  its 
being  taken  from  him  and  stolen,  but  from  modesty. 
Sometimes  he  goes  to  the  window,  and  turning  his 
back  to  his  companions,  puts  something  on  his  breast, 
and  bending  his  head,  looks  at  it;  if  you  go  up  to  him 
at  such  a  moment,  he  is  overcome  with  confusion  and 


Ward  No.  6  43 

snatches  something  off  his  breast.  But  it  is  not 
difficult  to  guess  his  secret. 

"  Congratulate  me,"  he  often  says  to  Ivan  Dmit- 
ritch;  "I  have  been  presented  with  the  Stanislav 
order  of  the  second  degree  with  the  star.  The  sec- 
ond degree  with  the  star  is  only  given  to  foreigners, 
but  for  some  reason  they  want  to  make  an  exception 
for  me,"  he  says  with  a  smile,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders in  perplexity.  "  That  I  must  confess  I  did  not 
expect." 

"  I  don't  understand  anything  about  that,"  Ivan 
Dmitritch  replies  morosely. 

"  But  do  you  know  what  I  shall  attain  to  sooner 
or  later?"  the  former  sorter  persists,  screwing  up 
his  eyes  slily.  "  I  shall  certainly  get  the  Swedish 
'  Polar  Star.'  That's  an  order  it  is  worth  working 
for,  a  white  cross  with  a  black  ribbon.  It's  very 
beautiful." 

Probably  in  no  other  place  is  life  so  monotonous 
as  in  this  ward.  In  the  morning  the  patients,  except 
the  paralytic  and  the  fat  peasant,  wash  in  the  entry 
at  a  big  tub  and  wipe  themselves  with  the  skirts  of 
their  dressing-gowns;  after  that  they  drink  tea  out 
of  tin  mugs  which  Nikita  brings  them  out  of  the 
main  building.  Everyone  is  allowed  one  mugful. 
At  midday  they  have  soup  made  out  of  sour  cabbage 
and  boiled  grain,  in  the  evening  their  supper  consists 
of  grain  left  from  dinner.  In  the  intervals  they  lie 
down,  sleep,  look  out  of  window,  and  walk  from 
one  corner  to  the  other.  And  so  every  day.  Even 
the  former  sorter  always  talks  of  the  same  orders. 

Fresh  faces  are  rarely  seen  in  Ward  No.  6.  The 
doctor  has  not  taken  in  any  new  mental  cases  for  a 


44  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

long  time,  and  the  people  who  are  fond  of  visiting 
lunatic  asylums  are  few  in  this  world.  Once  every 
two  months  Semyon  Lazaritch,  the  barber,  appears 
in  the  ward.  How  he  cuts  the  patients'  hair,  and  how 
Nikita  helps  him  to  do  it,  and  what  a  trepidation  the 
lunatics  are  always  thrown  into  by  the  arrival  of  the 
drunken,  smiling  barber,  we  will  not  describe. 

No  one  even  looks  into  the  ward  except  the  bar- 
ber. The  patients  .are  condemned  to  see  day  after 
day  no  one  but  Nikita. 

A  rather  strange  rumour  has,  however,  been  cir- 
culating in  the  hospital  of  late. 

It  is  rumoured  that  the  doctor  has  begun  to  visit 
Ward  No.  6. 


A  strange  rumour! 

Dr.  Andrey  Yefimitch  Ragin  is  a  strange  man 
in  his  way.  They  say  that  when  he  was  young  he 
was  very  religious,  and  prepared  himself  for  a  cleri- 
cal career,  and  that  when  he  had  finished  his  studies 
at  the  high  school  in  1863  he  intended  to  enter  a 
theological  academy,  but  that  his  father,  a  surgeon 
and  doctor  of  medicine,  jeered  at  him  and  declared 
point-blank  that  he  would  disown  him  if  he  became 
a  priest.  How  far  this  is  true  I  don't  know,  but 
Andrey  Yefimitch  himself  has  more  than  once  con- 
fessed that  he  has  never  had  a  natural  bent  for 
medicine  or  science  in  general. 

However  that  may  have  been,  when  he  finished 
his  studies  in  the  medical  faculty  he  did  not  enter 
the  priesthood.     He  showed  no  special  devoutness, 


Ward  No.  6  45 

and  was  no  more  like  a  priest  at  the  beginning  of 
his  medical  career  than  he  is  now. 

His  exterior  is  heavy,  coarse  like  a  peasant's,  his 
face,  his  beard,  his  flat  hair,  and  his  coarse,  clumsy 
figure,  suggest  an  overfed,  intemperate,  and  harsh 
innkeeper  on  the  highroad.  His  face  is  surly- 
looking  and  covered  with  blue  veins,  his  eyes  are 
little  and  his  nose  is  red.  With  his  height  and  broad 
shoulders  he  has  huge  hands  and  feet;  one  would 
think  that  a  blow  from  his  fist  would  knock  the 
life  out  of  anyone,  but  his  step  is  soft,  and  his  walk 
is  cautious  and  insinuating;  when  he  meets  anyone 
in  a  narrow  passage  he  is  always  the  first  to  stop 
and  make  way,  and  to  say,  not  in  a  bass,  as  one 
would  expect,  but  in  a  high,  soft  tenor:  "  I  beg  your 
pardon  !  "  He  has  a  little  swelling  on  his  neck  which 
prevents  him  from  wearing  stiff  starched  collars, 
and  so  he  always  goes  about  in  soft  linen  or  cotton 
shirts.  Altogether  he  does  not  dress  like  a  doctor. 
He  wears  the  same  suit  for  ten  years,  and  the  new 
clothes,  which  he  usually  buys  at  a  Jewish  shop,  look 
as  shabby  and  crumpled  on  him  as  his  old  ones;  he 
sees  patients  and  dines  and  pays  visits  all  in  the 
same  coat;  but  this  is  not  due  to  niggardliness,  but 
to  complete  carelessness  about  his  appearance. 

When  Andrey  Yefimitch  came  to  the  town  to  take 
up  his  duties  the  "  institution  founded  to  the  glory 
of  God  "  was  in  a  terrible  condition.  One  could 
hardly  breathe  for  the  stench  in  the  wards,  in  the 
passages,  and  in  the  courtyards  of  the  hospital.  The 
hospital  servants,  the  nurses,  and  their  children  slept 
in  the  wards  together  with  the  patients.  They  com- 
plained that  there  was  no  living  for  beetles,  bugs, 


46  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

and  mice.  The  surgical  wards  were  never  free  from 
erysipelas.  There  were  only  two  scalpels  and  not 
one  thermometer  in  the  whole  hospital;  potatoes 
were  kept  in  the  baths.  The  superintendent,  the 
housekeeper,  and  the  medical  assistant  robbed  the 
patients,  and  of  the  old  doctor,  Andrey  Yefimitch's 
predecessor,  people  declared  that  he  secretly  sold 
the  hospital  alcohol,  and  that  he  kept  a  regular  ha- 
rem consisting  of  nurses  and  female  patients.  These 
disorderly  proceedings  were  perfectly  well  known 
in  the  town,  and  were  even  exaggerated,  but  people 
took  them  calmly;  some  justified  them  on  the  ground 
that  there  were  only  peasants  and  working  men  in 
the  hospital,  who  could  not  be  dissatisfied,  since 
they  were  much  worse  off  at  home  than  in  the  hos- 
pital— they  couldn't  be  fed  on  woodcocks !  Others 
said  in  excuse  that  the  town  alone,  without  help  from 
the  Zemstvo,  was  not  equal  to  maintaining  a  good 
hospital;  thank  God  for  having  one  at  all,  even  a 
poor  one.  And  the  newly  formed  Zemstvo  did  not 
open  infirmaries  either  in  the  town  or  the  neighbour- 
hood, relying  on  the  fact  that  the  town  already  had 
its  hospital. 

After  looking  over  the  hospital  Andrey  Yefimitch 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  an  immoral  insti- 
tution and  extremely  prejudicial  to  the  health  of  the 
townspeople.  In  his  opinion  the  most  sensible  thinp; 
that  could  be  done  was  to  let  out  the  patients  and 
close  the  hospital.  But  he  reflected  that  his  will 
alone  was  not  enough  to  do  this,  and  that  it  would 
be  useless ;  if  physical  and  moral  impurity  were  driven 
out  of  one  place,  they  would  only  move  to  another; 
one  must  wait  for  it  to  wither  away  of  itself.     Be- 


Ward  No.  6  47 

sides,  if  people  open  a  hospital  and  put  up  with 
having  it,  it  must  be  because  they  need  it;  supersti- 
tion and  all  the  nastiness  and  abominations  of  daily 
life  were  necessary,  since  in  process  of  time  they 
worked  out  to  something  sensible,  just  as  manure 
turns  into  black  earth.  There  was  nothing  on  earth 
so  good  that  it  had  not  something  nasty  about  its 
first  origin. 

^When  Andrey  Yefimitch  undertook  his  duties  he 
was  apparently  not  greatly  concerned  about  the  ir- 
regularities at  the  hospital.  He  only  asked  the 
attendants  and  nurses  not  to  sleep  in  the  wards,  and 
had  two  cupboards  of  instruments  put  up;  the  super- 
intendent, the  housekeeper,  the  medical  assistant, 
and  the  erysipelas  remained  unchanged. 

Andrey  Yefimitch  loved  intelligence  and  honesty 
intensely,  but  he  had  no  strength  of  will  nor  belief 
in  his  right  to  organize  an  intelligent  and  honest 
life  about  him.  He  was  absolutely  unable  to  give 
orders,  to  forbid  things,  and  to  insist.  It  seemed 
as  though  he  had  taken  a  vow  never  to  raise  his 
voice  and  never  to  make  use  of  the  imperative.  It 
was  difficult  for  him  to  say  "  Fetch  "  or  "  Bring  "; 
when  he  wanted  his  meals  he  would  cough  hesitat- 
ingly and  say  to  the  cook:  "  How  about  tea?  .  .  ." 
or  "How  about  dinner?  .  .  ."  To  dismiss  the 
superintendent  or  to  tell  him  to  leave  off  stealing, 
or  to  abolish  the  unnecessary  parasitic  post  alto- 
gether, was  absolutely  beyond  his  powers.  When 
Andrey  Yefimitch  was  deceived  or  flattered,  or 
accounts  he  knew  to  be  cooked  were  brought  him 
to  sign,  he  would  turn  as  red  as  a  crab  and  feel 
guilty,  but  yet  he  would  sign  the  accounts.     When 


48  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  patients  complained  to  him  of  being  hungry  or  of 
the  roughness  of  the  nurses,  he  would  be  confused 
and  mutter  guiltily:  "Very  well,  very  well,  I  will 
go  into  it  later.  .  .  .  Most  likely  there  is  some 
misunderstanding.   .   .   ." 

At  first  Andrey  Yefimitch  worked  very  zealously. 
He  saw  patients  every  day  from  morning  till  dinner- 
time, performed  operations,  and  even  attended  con- 
finements. The  ladies  said  of  him  that  he  was  atten- 
tive and  clever  at  diagnosing  diseases,  especially 
those  of  women  and  children.  But  in  process  of  time 
the  work  unmistakably  wearied  him  by  its  monotony 
and  obvious  uselessness.  To-day  one  sees  thirty 
patients,  and  to-morrow  they  have  increased  to 
thirty-five,  the  next  day  forty,  and  so  on  from  day 
to  day,  from  year  to  year,  while  the  mortality  in  the 
town  did  not  decrease  and  the  patients  did  not  leave 
off  coming.  To  be  any  real  help  to  forty  patients 
between  morning  and  dinner  was  not  physically  pos- 
sible, so  it  could  but  lead  to  deception.  If  twelve 
thousand  patients  were  seen  in  a  year  it  meant,  if 
one  looked  at  it  simply,  that  twelve  thousand  men 
were  deceived.  To  put  those  who  were  seriously  ill 
into  wards,  and  to  treat  them  according  to  the  prin- 
ciples of  science,  was  impossible,  too,  because  though 
there  were  principles  there  was  no  science ;  if  he  were 
to  put  aside  philosophy  and  pedantically  follow  the 
rules  as  other  doctors  did,  the  things  above  all  nec- 
essary were  cleanliness  and  ventilation  instead  of 
dirt,  wholesome  nourishment  instead  of  broth  made 
of  stinking,  sour  cabbage,  and  good  assistants  instead 
of  thieves;  and,  indeed,  why  hinder  people  dying  if 
death  is  the  normal  and  legitimate  end  of  everyone? 


Ward  No.  6  49 

What  is  gained  if  some  shopkeeper  or  clerk  lives  an 
extra  five  or  ten  years?  If  the  aim  of  medicine  is  by 
drugs  to  alleviate  suffering,  the  question  forces  itself 
on  one :  why  alleviate  it?  In  the  first  place,  they  say 
that  suffering  leads  man  to  perfection;  and  in  the 
second,  if  mankind  really  learns  to  alleviate  its 
sufferings  with  pills  and  drops,  it  will  completely 
abandon  religion  and  philosophy,  in  which  it  has 
hitherto  found  not  merely  protection  from  all  sorts 
of  trouble,  but  even  happiness.  Pushkin  suffered 
terrible  agonies  before  his  death,  poor  Heine  lay 
paralyzed  for  several  years;  why,  then,  should  not 
some  Andrey  Yefimitch  or  Matryona  Savishna  be 
ill,  since  their  lives  had  nothing  of  importance  in 
them,  and  would  have  been  entirely  empty  and  like 
the  life  of  an  amoeba  except  for  suffering? 

Oppressed  by  such  reflections,  Andrey  Yefimitch 
relaxed  his  efforts  and  gave  up  visiting  the  hospital 
every  day. 

VI 

His  life  was  passed  like  this.  As  a  rule  he  got  up 
at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  dressed,  and  drank 
his  tea.  Then  he  sat  down  in  his  study  to  read,  or 
went  to  the  hospital.  At  the  hospital  the  out-pa- 
tients were  sitting  in  the  dark,  narrow  little  corridor 
waiting  to  be  seen  by  the  doctor.  The  nurses  and 
the  attendants,  tramping  with  their  boots  over  the 
brick  floors,  ran  by  them;  gaunt-looking  patients  in 
dressing-gowns  passed;  dead  bodies  and  vessels  full 
of  filth  were  carried  by;  the  children  were  crying, 
and  there  was  a  cold  draught.     Andrey  Yefimitch 


£0  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

knew  that  such  surroundings  were  torture  to  fever- 
ish, consumptive,  and  impressionable  patients;  but 
what  could  be  done?  In  the  consulting-room  he  was 
met  by  his  assistant,  Sergey  Sergeyitch — a  fat  little 
man  with  a  plump,  well-washed  shaven  face,  with 
soft,  smooth  manners,  wearing  a  new  loosely  cut 
suit,  and  looking  more  like  a  senator  than  a  medical 
assistant.  He  had  an  immense  practice  in  the  town, 
wore  a  white  tie,  and  considered  himself  more  pro- 
ficient than  the  doctor,  who  had  no  practice.  In  the 
corner  of  the  consulting-room  there  stood  a  huge 
ikon  in  a  shrine  with  a  heavy  lamp  in  front  of  it,  and 
near  it  a  candle-stand  with  a  white  cover  on  it.  On 
the  walls  hung  portraits  of  bishops,  a  view  of  the 
Svyatogorsky  Monastery,  and  wreaths  of  dried  corn- 
flowers. Sergey  Sergeyitch  was  religious,  and  liked 
solemnity  and  decorum.  The  ikon  had  been  put  up 
at  his  expense;  at  his  instructions  some  one  of  the 
patients  read  the  hymns  of  praise  in  the  consulting- 
room  on  Sundays,  and  after  the  reading  Sergey 
Sergeyitch  himself  went  through  the  wards  with  a 
censer  and  burned  incense. 

There  were  a  great  many  patients,  but  the  time 
was  short,  and  so  the  work  was  confined  to  the  ask- 
ing of  a  few  brief  questions  and  the  administration 
of  some  drugs,  such  as  castor-oil  or  volatile  oint- 
ment. Andrey  Yefimitch  would  sit  with  his  cheek 
resting  in  his  hand,  lost  in  thought  and  asking  ques- 
tions mechanically.  Sergey  Sergeyitch  sat  down  too, 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  from  time  to  time  putting  in 
his  word. 

suffer  pain   and  poverty,"   he   would   say, 


Ward  No.  6  51 

"  because  we  do  not  pray  to  the  merciful  God  as  we 
should.    Yes!" 

Andrey  Yefimitch  never  performed  any  opera- 
tions when  he  was  seeing  patients;  he  had  long  ago 
given  up  doing  so,  and  the  sight  of  blood  upset  him. 
When  he  had  to  open  a  child's  mouth  in  order  to 
look  at  its  throat,  and  the  child  cried  and  tried  to 
defend  itself  with  its  little  hands,  the  noise  in  his 
ears  made  his  head  go  round  and  brought  tears  into 
his  eyes.  He  would  make  haste  to  prescribe  a  drug, 
and  motion  to  the  woman  to  take  the  child  away. 

He  was  soon  wearied  by  the  timidity  of  the 
patients  and  their  incoherence,  by  the  proximity  of 
the  pious  Sergey  Sergeyitch,  by  the  portraits  on  the 
walls,  and  by  his  own  questions  which  he  had  asked 
over  and  over  again  for  twenty  years.  And  he 
would  go  away  after  seeing  five  or  six  patients.  The 
rest  would  be  seen  by  his  assistant  in  his  absence. 

With  the  agreeable  thought  that,  thank  God,  he 
had  no  private  practice  now,  and  that  no  one  would 
interrupt  him,  Andrey  Yefimitch  sat  down  to  the 
table  immediately  on  reaching  home  and  took  up  a 
book.  He  read  a  great  deal  and  always  with  enjoy- 
ment. Half  his  salary  went  on  buying  books,  and  of 
the  six  rooms  that  made  up  his  abode  three  were 
heaped  up  with  books  and  old  magazines.  He  liked 
best  of  all  works  on  history  and  philosophy;  the  only 
medical  publication  to  which  he  subscribed  was  The 
Doctor,  of  which  he  always  read  the  last  pages  first. 
He  would  always  go  on  reading  for  several  hours 
without  a  break  and  without  being  weary.  He  did 
not  read  as  rapidly  and  impulsively  as  Ivan  Dmit- 
ritch  had  done  in  the  past,  but  slowly  and  with  con- 


52  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

centration,  often  pausing  over  a  passage  which  he 
liked  or  did  not  find  intelligible.  Near  the  books 
there  always  stood  a  decanter  of  vodka,  and  a  salted 
cucumber  or  a  pickled  apple  lay  beside  it,  not  on  a 
plate,  but  on  the  baize  table-cloth.  Every  half-hour 
he  would  pour  himself  out  a  glass  of  vodka  and 
drink  it  without  taking  his  eyes  off  the  book.  Then 
without  looking  at  it  he  would  feel  for  the  cucumber 
and  bite  off  a  bit. 

At  three  o'clock  he  would  go  cautiously  to  the 
kitchen  door,  cough,  and  say:  "  Daryushka,  what 
about  dinner?  .   .   ." 

After  his  dinner — a  rather  poor  and  untidily 
served  one — Andrey  Yefimitch  would  walk  up  and 
down  his  rooms  with  his  arms  folded,  thinking. 
The  clock  would  strike  four,  then  five,  and  still  he 
would  be  walking  up  and  down  thinking.  Occa- 
sionally the  kitchen  door  would  creak,  and  the  red 
and  sleepy  face  of  Daryushka  would  appear. 

"  Andrey  Yefimitch,  isn't  it  time  for  you  to  have 
your  beer?  "  she  would  ask  anxiously. 

"  No,  it  is  not  time  yet  .  .  ."  he  would  answer. 
"  I'll  wait  a  little.  .  .  .     I'll  wait  a  little.  .  .  ." 

Towards  the  evening  the  postmaster,  Mihail 
Averyanitch,  the  only  man  in  the  town  whose  society 
did  not  bore  Andrey  Yefimitch,  would  come  in. 
Mihail  Averyanitch  had  once  been  a  very  rich  land- 
owner, and  had  served  in  the  cavalry,  but  had  come 
to  ruin,  and  was  forced  by  poverty  to  take  a  job  in 
the  post  office  late  in  life.  He  had  a  hale  and  hearty 
appearance,  luxuriant  grey  whiskers,  the  manners  of 
a  well-bred  man,  and  a  loud,  pleasant  voice.  He  was 
good-natured    and    emotional,    but    hot-tempered. 


Ward  No.  6  53' 

When  anyone  in  the  post  office  made  a  protest,  ex- 
pressed disagreement,  or  even  began  to  argue, 
Mihail  Averyanitch  would  turn  crimson,  shake  all 
over,  and  shout  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  Hold  your 
tongue  !  "  so  that  the  post  office  had  long  enjoyed  the 
reputation  of  an  institution  which  it  was  terrible  to 
visit.  Mihail  Averyanitch  liked  and  respected  An- 
drey  Yefimitch  for  his  culture  and  the  loftiness  of 
his  soul ;  he  treated  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  town 
superciliously,  as  though  they  were  his  subordinates. 

"  Here  I  am,"  he  would  say,  going  in  to  Andrey 
Yefimitch.  "Good-evening,  my  dear  fellow!  I'll 
be  bound,  you  are  getting  sick  of  me,  aren't  you?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  delighted,"  said  the  doc- 
tor.   "  I  am  always  glad  to  see  you." 

The  friends  would  sit  down  on  the  sofa  in  the 
study  and  for  some  time  would  smoke  in  silence. 

"  Daryushka,  what  about  the  beer?"  Andrey 
Yefimitch  would  say. 

They  would  drink  their  first  bottle  still  in  silence, 
the  doctor  brooding  and  Mihail  Averyanitch  with  a 
gay  and  animated  face,  like  a  man  who  has  some- 
thing very  interesting  to  tell.  The  doctor  was  always 
the  one  to  begin  the  conversation. 

"  What  a  pity,"  he  would  say  quietly  and  slowly, 
not  looking  his  friend  in  the  face  (he  never  looked 
anyone  in  the  face) — "what  a  great  pity  it  is  that 
there  are  no  people  in  our  town  who  are  capable  of 
carrying  on  intelligent  and  interesting  conversation, 
or  care  to  do  so.  It  is  an  immense  privation  for  us. 
Even  the  educated  class  do  not  rise  above  vulgarity; 
the  level  of  their  development,  I  assure  you,  is  not  a 
bit  higher  than  that  of  the  lower  orders." 


^4  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Perfectly  true.     I  agree." 

"  You  know,  of  course,"  the  doctor  went  on 
quietly  and  deliberately,  "  that  everything  in  this 
world  is  insignificant  and  uninteresting  except  the 
higher  spiritual  manifestations  of  the  human  mind. 
Intellect  draws  a  sharp  line  between  the  animals 
and  man,  suggests  the  divinity  of  the  latter,  and 
to  some  extent  even  takes  the  place  of  the  immor- 
tality which  does  not  exist.  Consequently  the  in- 
tellect is  the  only  possible  source  of  enjoyment.  We 
see  and  hear  of  no  trace  of  intellect  about  us,  so  we 
are  deprived  of  enjoyment.  We  have  books,  it  is 
true,  but  that  is  not  at  all  the  same  as  living  talk 
and  converse.  If  you  will  allow  me  to  make  a  not 
quite  apt  comparison:  books  are  the  printed  score, 
while  talk  is  the  singing." 

"  Perfectly  true." 

A  silence  would  follow.  Daryushka  would  come 
out  of  the  kitchen  and  with  an  expression  of  blank 
dejection  would  stand  in  the  doorway  to  listen,  with 
her  face  propped  on  her  fist. 

"Eh!"  Mihail  Averyanitch  would  sigh.  "To 
expect  intelligence  of  this  generation!  " 

And  he  would  describe  how  wholesome,  enter- 
taining, and  interesting  life  had  been  in  the  past. 
How  intelligent  the  educated  class  in  Russia  used 
to  be,  and  what  lofty  ideas  it  had  of  honour  and 
friendship;  how  they  used  to  lend  money  without 
an  IOU,  and  it  was  thought  a  disgrace  not  to  give 
a  helping  hand  to  a  comrade  in  need;  and  what  cam- 
paigns, what  adventures,  what  skirmishes,  what 
comrades,  what  women !  And  the  Caucasus,  what 
a  marvellous  country !    The  wife  of  a  battalion  com- 


Ward  No.  6  55 

mander,  a  queer  woman,  used  to  put  on  an  officer's 
uniform  and  drive  off  into  the  mountains  in  the  eve- 
ning, alone,  without  a  guide.  It  was  said  that  she 
had  a  love  affair  with  some  princeling  in  the  native 
village. 

"  Queen  of  Heaven,  Holy  Mother  .  .  ."  Dar- 
yushka  would  sigh. 

"And  how  we  drank!  And  how  we  ate!  And 
what  desperate  liberals  we  were!  " 

Andrey  Yefimitch  would  listen  without  hearing; 
he  was  musing  as  he  sipped  his  beer. 

"  I  often  dream  of  intellectual  people  and  con- 
versation with  them,"  he  said  suddenly,  interrupting 
Mihail  Averyanitch.  "  My  father  gave  me  an  ex- 
cellent education,  but  under  the  influence  of  the  ideas 
of  the  sixties  made  me  become  a  doctor.  I  believe  if 
I  had  not  obeyed  him  then,  by  now  I  should  have 
been  in  the  very  centre  of  the  intellectual  movement. 
Most  likely  I  should  have  become  a  member  of  some 
university.  Of  course,  intellect,  too,  is  transient  and 
not  eternal,  but  you  know  why  I  cherish  a  partiality 
for  it.  Life  is  a  vexatious  trap;  when  a  thinking 
man  reaches  maturity  and  attains  to  full  conscious- 
ness he  cannot  help  feeling  that  he  is  in  a  trap  from 
which  there  is  no  escape.  Indeed,  he  is  summoned 
without  his  choice  by  fortuitous  circumstances  from 
non-existence  into  life  .  .  .  what  for?  He  tries  to 
find  out  the  meaning  and  object  of  his  existence;  he 
is  told  nothing,  or  he  is  told  absurdities;  he  knocks 
and  it  is  not  opened  to  him;  death  comes  to  him — 
also  without  his  choice.  And  so,  just  as  in  prison 
men  held  together  by  common  misfortune  feel  more 
at  ease  when  they  are  together,  so  one  does  not  notice 


56  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  trap  in  life  when  people  with  a  bent  for  analysis 
and  generalization  meet  together  and  pass  their  time 
in  the  interchange  of  proud  and  free  ideas.  In  that 
sense  the  intellect  is  the  source  of  an  enjoyment 
nothing  can  replace." 

"  Perfectly  true." 

Not  looking  his  friend  in  the  face,  Andrey  Yefi- 
mitch  would  go  on,  quietly  and  with  pauses, 
talking  about  intellectual  people  and  conversation 
with  them,  and  Mihail  Averyanitch  would  listen 
attentively  and  agree :  "  Perfectly  true." 

"  And  you  do  not  believe  in  the  immortality  of  the 
soul?  "  he  would  ask  suddenly. 

"  No,  honoured  Mihail  Averyanitch;  I  do  not  be- 
lieve it,  and  have  no  grounds  for  believing  it." 

"  I  must  own  I  doubt  it  too.  And  yet  I  have  a 
feeling  as  though  I  should  never  die.  Oh,  I  think 
to  myself:  '  Old  fogey,  it  is  time  you  were  dead!  ' 
But  there  is  a  little  voice  in  my  soul  says:  '  Don't 
believe  it;  you  won't  die.'  " 

Soon  after  nine  o'clock  Mihail  Averyanitch  would 
go  away.  As  he  put  on  his  fur  coat  in  the  entry 
he  would  say  with  a  sigh : 

"  What  a  wilderness  fate  has  carried  us  to, 
though,  really!  What's  most  vexatious  of  all  is  to 
have  to  die  here.    Ech!  .  .  ." 

VII 

After  seeing  his  friend  out  Andrey  Yefimitch 
would  sit  down  at  the  table  and  begin  reading  again. 
The  stillness  of  the  evening,  and  afterwards  of  the 
night,   was  not  broken  by   a   single   sound,   and   it 


Ward  No.  6  57 

seemed  as  though  time  were  standing  still  and  brood- 
ing with  the  doctor  over  the  book,  and  as  though 
there  were  nothing  in  existence  but  the  books  and  the 
lamp  with  the  green  shade.  The  doctor's  coarse 
peasant-like  face  was  gradually  lighted  up  by  a  smile 
of  delight  and  enthusiasm  over  the  progress  of  the 
human  intellect.  Oh,  why  is  not  man  immortal?  he 
thought.  What  is  the  good  of  the  brain  centres  and 
convolutions,  what  is  the  good  of  sight,  speech,  self- 
consciousness,  genius,  if  it  is  all  destined  to  depart 
into  the  soil,  and  in  the  end  to  grow  cold  together 
with  the  earth's  crust,  and  then  for  millions  of  years 
to  fly  with  the  earth  round  the  sun  with  no  meaning 
and  no  object?  To  do  that  there  was  no  need  at  all 
to  draw  man  with  his  lofty,  almost  godlike  intellect 
out  of  non-existence,  and  then,  as  though  in  mockery, 
to  turn  him  into  clay.  The  transmutation  of  sub- 
stances! But  what  cowardice  to  comfort  oneself 
with  that  cheap  substitute  for  immortality!  The 
unconscious  processes  that  take  place  in  nature  are 
lower  even  than  the  stupidity  of  man,  since  in  stu- 
pidity there  is,  anyway,  consciousness  and  will,  while 
in  those  processes  there  is  absolutely  nothing.  Only 
the  coward  who  has  more  fear  of  death  than  dignity 
can  comfort  himself  with  the  fact  that  his  body  will 
in  time  live  again  in  the  grass,  in  the  stones,  in  the 
toad.  To  find  one's  immortality  in  the  transmuta- 
tion of  substances  is  as  strange  as  to  prophesy  a 
brilliant  future  for  the  case  after  a  precious  violin 
has  been  broken  and  become  useless. 

When  the  clock  struck,  Andrey  Yefimitch  would 
sink  back  into  his  chair  and  close  his  eyes  to  think 
a  little.     And  under  the  influence  of  the  fine  ideas 


58  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

of  which  he  had  been  reading  he  would,  unawares, 
recall  his  past  and  his  present.  The  past  was  hate- 
ful— better  not  to  think  of  it.  And  it  was  the  same 
in  the  present  as  in  the  past.  He  knew  that  at  the 
very  time  when  his  thoughts  were  floating  together 
with  the  cooling  earth  round  the  sun,  in  the  main 
building  beside  his  abode  people  were  suffering  in 
sickness  and  physical  impurity:  someone  perhaps 
could  not  sleep  and  was  making  war  upon  the  in- 
sects, someone  was  being  infected  by  erysipelas,  or 
moaning  over  too  tight  a  bandage;  perhaps  the  pa- 
tients were  playing  cards  with  the  nurses  and  drink- 
ing vodka.  According  to  the  yearly  return,  twelve 
thousand  people  had  been  deceived;  the  whole  hos- 
pital rested  as  it  had  done  twenty  years  ago  on  thiev- 
ing, filth,  scandals,  gossip,  on  gross  quackery,  and, 
as  before,  it  was  an  immoral  institution  extremely 
injurious  to  the  health  of  the  inhabitants.  He  knew 
that  Nikita  knocked  the  patients  about  behind  the 
barred  windows  of  Ward  No.  6,  and  that  Moiseika 
went  about  the  town  every  day  begging  alms. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  knew  very  well  that  a 
magical  change  had  taken  place  in  medicine  during 
the  last  twenty-five  years.  When  he  was  studying 
at  the  university  he  had  fancied  that  medicine  would 
soon  be  overtaken  by  the  fate  of  alchemy  and  meta- 
physics; but  now  when  he  was  reading  at  night  the 
science  of  medicine  touched  him  and  excited  his  won- 
der, and  even  enthusiasm.  What  unexpected  bril- 
liance, what  a  revolution!  Thanks  to  the  antiseptic 
system  operations  were  performed  such  as  the  great 
Pirogov  had  considered  impossible  even  in  spe. 
Ordinary  Zemstvo  doctors  were  venturing  to  per- 


Ward  No.  6  59 

form  the  resection  of  the  kneecap;  of  abdominal 
operations  only  one  per  cent,  was  fatal;  while  stone 
was  considered  such  a  trifle  that  they  did  not  even 
write  about  it.  A  radical  cure  for  syphilis  had  been 
discovered.  And  the  theory  of  heredity,  hypnotism, 
the  discoveries  of  Pasteur  and  of  Koch,  hygiene 
based  on  statistics,  and  the  work  of  our  Zemstvo 
doctors ! 

Psychiatry  with  its  modern  classification  of  mental 
diseases,  methods  of  diagnosis,  and  treatment,  was 
a  perfect  Elborus  in  comparison  with  what  had  been 
in  the  past.  They  no  longer  poured  cold  water  on 
the  heads  of  lunatics  nor  put  strait-waistcoats  upon 
them;  they  treated  them  with  humanity,  and  even,  so 
it  was  stated  in  the  papers,  got  up  balls  and  enter- 
tainments for  them.  Andrey  Yefimitch  knew  that 
with  modern  tastes  and  views  such  an  abomination 
as  Ward  No.  6  was  possible  only  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  from  a  railway  in  a  little  town  where  the 
mayor  and  all  the  town  council  were  half-illiterate 
tradesmen  who  looked  upon  the  doctor  as  an  oracle 
who  must  be  believed  without  any  criticism  even  if 
he  had  poured  molten  lead  into  their  mouths;  in  any 
other  place  the  public  and  the  newspapers  would  long 
ago  have  torn  this  little  Bastille  to  pieces,. 

"But,  after  all,  what  of  it?"  Andrey  Yefimitch 
would  ask  himself,  opening  his  eyes.  "  There  is 
the  antiseptic  system,  there  is  Koch,  there  is  Pasteur, 
but  the  essential  reality  is  not  altered  a  bit;  ill-health 
and  mortality  are  still  the  same.  They  get  up  balls 
and  entertainments  for  the  mad,  but  still  they  don't 
let  them  go  free;  so  it's  all  nonsense  and  vanity,  and 
there  is  no  difference  in  reality  between  the  best 


60  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Vienna  clinic  and  my  hospital."  But  depression  and 
a  feeling  akin  to  envy  prevented  him  from  feeling 
indifferent;  it  must  have  been  owing  to  exhaustion. 
His  heavy  head  sank  on  to  the  book,  he  put  his  hands 
under  his  face  to  make  it  softer,  and  thought:  "  I 
serve  in  a  pernicious  institution  and  receive  a  salary 
from  people  whom  I  am  deceiving.  I  am  not  honest, 
but  then,  I  of  myself  am  nothing,  I  am  only  part  of 
an  inevitable  social  evil:  all  local  officials  are  perni- 
cious and  receive  their  salary  for  doing  nothing. 
.  .  .  And  so  for  my  dishonesty  it  is  not  I  who  am 
to  blame,  but  the  times.  ...  If  I  had  been 
born  two  hundred  years  later  I  should  have  been 
different.   .   .   ." 

When  it  struck  three  he  would  put  out  his  lamp 
and  go  into  his  bedroom;  he  was  not  sleepy. 

VIII 

Two  years  before,  the  Zemstvo  in  a  liberal  mood 
had  decided  to  allow  three  hundred  roubles  a  year 
to  pay  for  additional  medical  service  in  the  town  till 
the  Zemstvo  hospital  should  be  opened,  and  the  dis- 
trict doctor,  Yevgeny  Fyodoritch  Hobotov,  was  in- 
vited to  the  town  to  assist  Andrey  Yefimitch.  He 
was  a  very  young  man — not  yet  thirty — tall  and 
dark,  with  broad  cheek-bones  and  little  eyes;  his 
forefathers  had  probably  come  from  one  of  the  many 
alien  races  of  Russia.  He  arrived  in  the  town  with- 
out a  farthing,  with  a  small  portmanteau,  and  a  plain 
young  woman  whom  he  called  his  cook.  This  woman 
had  a  baby  at  the  breast.  Yevgeny  Fyodoritch  used 
to   go   about  in  a   cap   with   a  peak,   and  in  high 


Ward  No.  6  61 

boots,  and  in  the  winter  wore  a  sheepskin.  He 
made  great  friends  with  Sergey  Sergeyitch,  the 
medical  assistant,  and  with  the  treasurer,  but 
held  aloof  from  the  other  officials,  and  for  some 
reason  called  them  aristocrats.  He  had  only  one 
book  in  his  lodgings,  "  The  Latest  Prescriptions  of 
the  Vienna  Clinic  for  1881."  When  he  went  to  a 
patient  he  always  took  this  book  with  him.  He 
played  billiards  in  the  evening  at  the  club  :  he  did  not 
like  cards.  He  was  very  fond  of  using  in  conversa- 
tion such  expressions  as  "  endless  bobbery,"  "  cant- 
ing soft  soap,"  "  shut  up  with  your  finicking.  .  .  ." 
He  visited  the  hospital  twice  a  week,  made  the 
round  of  the  wards,  and  saw  out-patients.  The 
complete  absence  of  antiseptic  treatment  and  the 
cupping  roused  his  indignation,  but  he  did  not  intro- 
duce any  new  system,  being  afraid  of  offending  An- 
drey  Yefimitch.  He  regarded  his  colleague  as  a  sly 
old  rascal,  suspected  him  of  being  a  man  of  large 
means,  and  secretly  envied  him.  He  would  have 
been  very  glad  to  have  his  post. 

IX 

On  a  spring  evening  towards  the  end  of  March, 
when  there  was  no  snow  left  on  the  ground  and 
the  starlings  were  singing  in  the  hospital  garden,  the 
doctor  went  out  to  see  his  friend  the  postmaster  as 
far  as  the  gate.  At  that  very  moment  the  Jew 
Moiseika,  returning  with  his  booty,  came  into  the 
yard.  He  had  no  cap  on,  and  his  bare  feet  were 
thrust  into  goloshes;  in  his  hand  he  had  a  little  bag 
of  coppers. 


62  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

11  Give  me  a  kopeck  I  "  he  said  to  the  doctor,  smil- 
ing, and  shivering  with  cold.  Andrey  Yefimitch, 
who  could  never  refuse  anyone  anything,  gave  him 
a  ten-kopeck  piece. 

"  How  bad  that  is !  "  he  thought,  looking  at 
the  Jew's  bare  feet  with  their  thin  red  ankles. 
"  Why,  it's  wet." 

And  stirred  by  a  feeling  akin  both  to  pity  and 
disgust,  he  went  into  the  lodge  behind  the  Jew, 
looking  now  at  his  bald  head,  now  at  his  ankles. 
As  the  doctor  went  in,  Nikita  jumped  up  from  his 
heap  of  litter  and  stood  at  attention. 

"  Good-day,  Nikita,"  Andrey  Yefimitch  said 
mildly.  "  That  Jew  should  be  provided  with  boots 
or  something,  he  will  catch  cold." 

"  Certainly,  your  honour.  I'll  inform  the  super- 
intendent." 

"  Please  do;  ask  him  in  my  name.  Tell  him  that 
I  asked." 

The  door  into  the  ward  was  open.  Ivan  Dmit- 
ritch,  lying  propped  on  his  elbow  on  the  bed,  listened 
in  alarm  to  the  unfamiliar  voice,  and  suddenly  recog- 
nized the  doctor.  He  trembled  all  over  with  anger, 
jumped  up,  and  with  a  red  and  wrathful  face,  with 
his  eyes  starting  out  of  his  head,  ran  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

"  The  doctor  has  come!  "  he  shouted,  and  broke 
into  a  laugh.  "At  last!  Gentlemen,  I  congratu- 
late you.  The  doctor  is  honouring  us  with  a  visit! 
Cursed  reptile !  "  he  shrieked,  and  stamped  in  a 
frenzy  such  as  had  never  been  seen  in  the  ward 
before.  "  Kill  the  reptile !  No,  killing's  too  good. 
Drown  him  in  the  midden-pit !  " 


Ward  No.  6  63 

Andrey  Yefimitch,  hearing  this,  looked  into  the 
ward  from  the  entry  and  asked  gently:  "What 
for?" 

"What  for?"  shouted  Ivan  Dmitritch,  going 
up  to  him  with  a  menacing  air  and  convulsively  wrap- 
ping himself  in  his  dressing-gown.  "What  for? 
Thief!  "  he  said  with  a  look  of  repulsion,  moving 
his  lips  as  though  he  would  spit  at  him.  "  Quack! 
hangman!  " 

"  Calm  yourself,"  said  Andrey  Yefimitch,  smiling 
guiltily.  "  I  assure  you  I  have  never  stolen  any- 
thing; and  as  to  the  rest,  most  likely  you  greatly 
exaggerate.  I  see  you  are  angry  with  me.  Calm 
yourself,  I  beg,  if  you  can,  and  tell  me  coolly  what 
are  you  angry  for?  " 

"What  are  you  keeping  me  here  for?  " 

"  Because  you  are  ill." 

"  Yes,  I  am  ill.  But  you  know  dozens,  hundreds 
of  madmen  are  walking  about  in  freedom  because 
your  ignorance  is  incapable  of  distinguishing  them 
from  the  sane.  Why  am  I  and  these  poor  wretches 
to  be  shut  up  here  like  scapegoats  for  all  the  rest? 
You,  your  assistant,  the  superintendent,  and  all 
your  hospital  rabble,  are  immeasurably  inferior  to 
every  one  of  us  morally;  why  then  are  we  shut  up 
and  you  not?    Where's  the  logic  of  it?  " 

"  Morality  and  logic  don't  come  in,  it  all  depends 
on  chance.  If  anyone  is  shut  up  he  has  to  stay,  and 
if  anyone  is  not  shut  up  he  can  walk  about,  that's 
all.  There  is  neither  morality  nor  logic  in  my 
being  a  doctor  and  your  being  a  mental  patient,  there 
is  nothing  but  idle  chance." 

"  That  twaddle  I  don't  understand  .   .   ."   Ivan 


64  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

DmitrUch  brought  out  in  a  hollow  voice,  and  he 
sat  down  on  his  bed. 

Moiseika,  whom  Nikita  did  not  venture  to  search 
in  the  presence  of  the  doctor,  laid  out  on  his  bed 
pieces  of  bread,  bits  of  paper,  and  little  bones,  and, 
still  shivering  with  cold,  began  rapidly  in  a  singsong 
voice  saying  something  in  Yiddish.  He  most  likely 
imagined  that  he  had  opened  a  shop. 

"  Let  me  out,"  said  Ivan  Dmitritch,  and  his  voice 
quivered. 

"  I  cannot." 

"But  why,  why?" 

"  Because  it  is  not  in  my  power.  Think,  what  use 
will  it  be  to  you  if  I  do  let  you  out?  Go.  The  towns- 
people or  the  police  will  detain  you  or  bring  you 
back." 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  true,"  said  Ivan  Dmitritch,  and 
he  rubbed  his  forehead.  "It's  awful  I  But  what 
am  I  to  do,  what?  " 

Andrey  Yefimitch  liked  Ivan  Dmitritch's  voice 
and  his  intelligent  young  face  with  its  grimaces.  He 
longed  to  be  kind  to  the  young  man  and  soothe  him; 
he  sat  down  on  the  bed  beside  him,  thought,  and 
said: 

"  You  ask  me  what  to  do.  The  very  best  thing 
in  your  position  would  be  to  run  away.  But,  un- 
happily, that  is  useless.  You  would  be  taken  up. 
When  society  protects  itself  from  the  criminal, 
mentally  deranged,  or  otherwise  inconvenient  people, 
it  is  invincible.  There  is  only  one  thing  left  for  you  : 
to  resign  yourself  to  the  thought  that  your  presence 
here  is  inevitable." 

"  It  is  no  use  to  anyone." 


Ward  No.  6  65 

"  So  long  as  prisons  and  madhouses  exist  someone 
must  be  shut  up  in  them.  If  not  you,  I.  If  not  I, 
some  third  person.  Wait  till  in  the  distant  future 
prisons  and  madhouses  no  longer  exist,  and  there 
will  be  neither  bars  on  the  windows  nor  hospital 
gowns.  Of  course,  that  time  will  come  sooner  or 
later." 

Ivan  Dmitritch  smiled  ironically. 

"  You  are  jesting,"  he  said,  screwing  up  his  eyes. 
"  Such  gentlemen  as  you  and  your  assistant  Nikita 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  future,  but  you  may 
be  sure,  sir,  better  days  will  come !  I  may  express 
myself  cheaply,  you  may  laugh,  but  the  dawn  of  a 
new  life  is  at  hand;  truth  and  justice  will  triumph, 
and — our  turn  will  come  !  I  shall  not  live  to  see  it, 
I  shall  perish,  but  some  people's  great-grandsons 
will  see  it.  I  greet  them  with  all  my  heart  and 
rejoice,  rejoice  with  them !  Onward !  God  be  your 
help,  friends !  " 

With  shining  eyes  Ivan  Dmitritch  got  up,  and 
stretching  his  hands  towards  the  window,  went  on 
with  emotion  in  his  voice  : 

"  From  behind  these  bars  I  bless  you!  Hurrah 
for  truth  and  justice  !     I  rejoice  !  " 

"  I  see  no  particular  reason  to  rejoice,"  said 
Andrey  Yefimitch,  who  thought  Ivan  Dmitritch's 
movement  theatrical,  though  he  was  delighted  by  it. 
"  Prisons  and  madhouses  there  will  not  be,  and 
truth,  as  you  have  just  expressed  it,  will  triumph ;  but 
the  reality  of  things,  you  know,  will  not  change, 
the  laws  of  nature  will  still  remain  the  same.  People 
will  suffer  pain,  grow  old,  and  die  just  as  they  do 
now.     However  magnificent  a  dawn  lighted  up  your 


66  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

life,  you  would  yet  in  the  end  be  nailed  up  in  a 
coffin  and  thrown  into  a  hole." 

"And  immortality?  " 

"  Oh,  come,  now!  " 

"  You  don't  believe  in  it,  but  I  do.  Somebody  in 
Dostoevsky  or  Voltaire  said  that  if  there  had  not 
been  a  God  men  would  have  invented  him.  And 
I  firmly  believe  that  if  there  is  no  immortality  the 
great  intellect  of  man  will  sooner  or  later  invent 
it." 

"  Well  said,"  observed  Andrey  Yefimitch,  smil- 
ing with  pleasure ;  "  it's  a  good  thing  you  have  faith. 
With  such  a  belief  one  may  live  happily  even  shut 
up  within  walls.  You  have  studied  somewhere,  I 
presume?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  at  the  university,  but  did  not 
complete  my  studies." 

"  You  are  a  reflecting  and  a  thoughtful  man.  In 
any  surroundings  you  can  find  tranquillity  in  your- 
self. Free  and  deep  thinking  which  strives  for  the 
comprehension  of  life,  and  complete  contempt  for 
the  foolish  bustle  of  the  world — those  are  two  bless- 
ings beyond  any  that  man  has  ever  known.  And 
you  can  possess  them  even  though  you  lived  behind 
threefold  bars.  Diogenes  lived  in  a  tub,  yet  he  was 
happier  than  all  the  kings  of  the  earth." 

"  Your  Diogenes  was  a  blockhead,"  said  Ivan 
Dmitritch  morosely.  "  Why  do  you  talk  to  me  about 
Diogenes  and  some  foolish  comprehension  of  life?  " 
he  cried,  growing  suddenly  angry  and  leaping  up. 
"  I  love  life ;  I  love  it  passionately.  I  have  the  mania 
of  persecution,  a  continual  agonizing  terror;  but  I 
have  moments  when  I  am  overwhelmed  by  the  thirst 


Ward  No.  6  67 

for  life,  and  then  I  am  afraid  of  going  mad.  I 
want  dreadfully  to  live,  dreadfully!  " 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  ward  in  agitation, 
and  said,  dropping  his  voice : 

"  When  I  dream  I  am  haunted  by  phantoms.  Peo- 
ple come  to  me,  I  hear  voices  and  music,  and  I  fancy 
I  am  walking  through  woods  or  by  the  seashore, 
and  I  long  so  passionately  for  movement,  for  inter- 
ests. .  .  .  Come,  tell  me,  what  news  is  there?" 
asked  Ivan  Dmitritch;  "  what's  happening?  " 

"  Do  you  wish  to  know  about  the  town  or  in 
general?  " 

"  Well,  tell  me  first  about  the  town,  and  then  in 
general." 

"  Well,  in  the  town  it  is  appallingly  dull.  .  .  . 
There's  no  one  to  say  a  word  to,  no  one  to  listen 
to.  There  are  no  new  people.  A  young  doctor 
called  Hobotov  has  come  here  recently." 

"  He  had  come  in  my  time.  Well,  he  is  a  low  cad, 
isn't  he?" 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  man  of  no  culture.  It's  strange, 
you  know.  .  .  .  Judging  by  every  sign,  there  is  no 
intellectual  stagnation  in  our  capital  cities;  there  is 
a  movement — so  there  must  be  real  people  there 
too;  but  for  some  reason  they  always  send  us  such 
men  as  I  would  rather  not  see.  It's  an  unlucky 
town!  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  an  unlucky  town,"  sighed  Ivan  Dmit- 
ritch, and  he  laughed.  "  And  how  are  things  in 
general?  What  are  they  writing  in  the  papers  and 
reviews?  " 

It  was  by  now  dark  in  the  ward.  The  doctor  got 
up,  and,  standing,  began  to  describe  what  was  being 


68  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

written  abroad  and  in  Russia,  and  the  tendency  of 
thought  that  could  be  noticed  now.  Ivan  Dmitritch 
listened  attentively  and  put  questions,  but  suddenly, 
as  though  recalling  something  terrible,  clutched  at 
his  head  and  lay  down  on  the  bed  with  his  back 
to  the  doctor. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  asked  Andrey  Yefimitch. 

"  You  will  not  hear  another  word  from  me," 
said  Ivan  Dmitritch  rudely.     "Leave  me  alone." 

"Why  so?" 

"  I  tell  you,  leave  me  alone.  Why  the  devil  do 
you  persist?  " 

Andrey  Yefimitch  shrugged  his  shoulders,  heaved 
a  sigh,  and  went  out.  As  he  crossed  the  entry  he 
said:  "You  might  clear  up  here,  Nikita  .  .  . 
there's  an  awfully  stuffy  smell." 

"  Certainly,  your  honour." 

"What  an  agreeable  young  man!"  thought 
Andrey  Yefimitch,  going  back  to  his  flat.  "  In  all 
the  years  I  have  been  living  here  I  do  believe 
he  is  the  first  I  have  met  with  whom  one  can  talk. 
He  is  capable  of  reasoning  and  is  interested  in  just 
the  right  things." 

While  he  was  reading,  and  afterwards,  while  he 
was  going  to  bed,  he  kept  thinking  about  Ivan  Dmit- 
ritch, and  when  he  woke  next  morning  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  the  day  before  made  the 
acquaintance  of  an  intelligent  and  interesting  man, 
and  determined  to  visit  him  again  as  soon  as  possible. 

X 

Ivan  Dmitritch  was  lying  in  the  same  position 
as  on  the  previous  day.  with  his  head  clutched  in 


Ward  No.  6  69 

both  hands  and  his  legs  drawn  up.     His  face  was 
not  visible. 

"  Good-day,  my  friend,"  said  Andrey  Yefimitch. 
"  You  are  not  asleep,  are  you?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  am  not  your  friend,"  Ivan 
Dmitri tch  articulated  into  the  pillow;  "and  in  the 
second,  your  efforts  are  useless;  you  will  not  get  one 
word  out  of  me." 

"  Strange,  "  muttered  Andrey  Yefimitch  in  con- 
fusion. "  Yesterday  we  talked  peacefully,  but  sud- 
denly for  some  reason  you  took  offence  and  broke 
off  all  at  once.  .  .  .  Probably  I  expressed  myself 
awkwardly,  or  perhaps  gave  utterance  to  some  idea 
which  did  not  fit  in  with  your  convictions.  .   .  ." 

"  Yes,  a  likely  idea!  "  said  Ivan  Dmitritch,  sitting 
up  and  looking  at  the  doctor  with  irony  and  uneasi- 
ness. His  eyes  were  red.  "  You  can  go  and  spy 
and  probe  somewhere  else,  it's  no  use  your  doing  it 
here.    I  knew  yesterday  what  you  had  come  for." 

"  A  strange  fancy,"  laughed  the  doctor..  "  So 
you  suppose  me  to  be  a  spy?  " 

'  Yes,  I  do.  ...  A  spy  or  a  doctor  who  has 
been  charged  to  test  me — it's  all  the  same " 

"  Oh,  excuse  me,  what  a  queer  fellow  you  are 
really!" 

The  doctor  sat  down  on  the  stool  near  the  bed 
and  shook  his  head  reproachfully. 

"  But  let  us  suppose  you  are  right,"  he  said,  "  let 
us  suppose  that  I  am  treacherously  trying  to  trap 
you  into  saying  something  so  as  to  betray  you  to 
the  police.  You  would  be  arrested  and  then  tried. 
But  would  you  be  any  worse  off  being  tried  and  in 
prison  than  you  are  here?    If  you  are  banished  to  a 


70  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

settlement,  or  even  sent  to  penal  servitude,  would 
it  be  worse  than  being  shut  up  in  this  ward?  I 
imagine  it  would  be  no  worse.  .  .  .  What,  then,  are 
you  afraid  of?  " 

These  words  evidently  had  an  effect  on  Ivan 
Dmitritch.     He  sat  down  quietly. 

It  was  between  four  and  five  in  the  afternoon — 
the  time  when  Andrey  Yefimitch  usually  walked  up 
and  down  his  rooms,  and  Daryushka  asked  whether 
it  was  not  time  for  his  beer.  It  was  a  still,  bright 
day. 

"  I  came  out  for  a  walk  after  dinner,  and  here  I 
have  come,  as  you  see,"  said  the  doctor.  ■  "  It  is 
quite  spring." 

"What  month  is  it?  March?"  asked  Ivan 
Dmitritch. 

11  Yes,  the  end  of  March." 

"  Is  it  very  muddy?  " 

"  No,  not  very.  There  are  already  paths  in  the 
garden." 

"  It  would  be  nice  now  to  drive  in  an  open  carriage 
somewhere  into  the  country,"  said  Ivan  Dmitritch, 
rubbing  his  red  eyes  as  though  he  were  just  awake, 
"  then  to  come  home  to  a  warm,  snug  study,  and 
.  .  .  and  to  have  a  decent  doctor  to  cure  one's 
headache.  .  .  .  It's  so  long  since  I  have  lived  like 
a  human  being.  It's  disgusting  here !  Insufferably 
disgusting!  " 

After  his  excitement  of  the  previous  day  he  was 
exhausted  and  listless,  and  spoke  unwillingly.  His 
fingers  twitched,  and  from  his  face  it  could  be  seen 
that  he  had  a  splitting  headache. 

"  There  is  no  real  difference  between  a  warm, 


Ward  No.  6  71 

snug  study  and  this  ward,"  said  Andrey  Yefimitch. 
"  A  man's  peace  and  contentment  do  not  lie  outside 
a  man,  but  in  himself." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

11  The  ordinary  man  looks  for  good  and  evil  in 
external  things — that  is,  in  carriages,  in  studies — 
but  a  thinking  man  looks  for  it  in  himself." 

11  You  should  go  and  preach  that  philosophy  in 
Greece,  where  it's  warm  and  fragrant  with  the  scent 
of  pomegranates,  but  here  it  is  not  suited  to  the 
climate.  With  whom  was  it  I  was  talking  of 
Diogenes?     Was  it  with  you?" 

11  Yes,  with  me  yesterday." 

"  Diogenes  did  not  need  a  study  or  a  warm  habita- 
tion ;  it's  hot  there  without.  You  can  lie  in  your  tub 
and  eat  oranges  and  olives.  But  bring  him  to  Rus- 
sia to  live  :  he'd  be  begging  to  be  let  indoors  in  May, 
let  alone  December.  He'd  be  doubled  up  with  the 
cold." 

"  No.  One  can  be  insensible  to  cold  as  to  every 
other  pain.  Marcus  Aurelius  says:  'A  pain  is  a 
vivid  idea  of  pain;  make  an  effort  of  will  to  change 
that  idea,  dismiss  it,  cease  to  complain,  and  the  pain 
will  disappear.'  That  is  true.  The  wise  man,  or 
simply  the  reflecting,  thoughtful  man,  is  distinguished 
precisely  by  his  contempt  for  suffering;  he  is  always 
contented  and  surprised  at  nothing." 

"  Then  I  am  an  idiot,  since  I  suffer  and  am  dis- 
contented and  surprised  at  the  baseness  of  man- 
kind." 

"  You  are  wrong  in  that;  if  you  will  reflect  more 
on  the  subject  you  will  understand  how  insignificant 
is  all  that  external  world  that  agitates  us.      One 


72  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

must  strive  for  the  comprehension  of  life,  and  in 
that  is  true  happiness." 

"  Comprehension  .  .  ."  repeated  Ivan  Dmitritch 
frowning.  "  External,  internal.  .  .  .  Excuse  me,  but 
1  don't  understand  it.  I  only  know,"  he  said,  getting 
up  and  looking  angrily  at  the  doctor — "  I  only  know 
that  God  has  created  me  of  warm  blood  and  nerves, 
yes,  indeed!  If  organic  tissue  is  capable  of  life  it 
must  react  to  every  stimulus.  And  I  do !  To  pain 
I  respond  with  tears  and  outcries,  to  baseness  with 
indignation,  to  filth  with  loathing.  To  my  mind, 
that  is  just  what  is  called  life.  The  lower  the  organ- 
ism, the  less  sensitive  it  is,  and  the  more  feebly  it 
reacts  to  stimulus;  and  the  higher  it  is,  the  more 
responsively  and  vigorously  it  reacts  to  reality.  How 
is  it  you  don't  know  that?  A  doctor,  and  not  know 
such  trifles!  To  despise  suffering,  to  be  always 
contented,  and  to  be  surprised  at  nothing,  one  must 
reach  this  condition  " — and  Ivan  Dmitritch  pointed 
to  the  peasant  who  was  a  mass  of  fat — "  or  to  harden 
oneself  by  suffering  to  such  a  point  that  one  loses 
all  sensibility  to  it — that  is,  in  other  words,  to  cease 
to  live.  You  must  excuse  me,  I  am  not  a  sage  or  a 
philosopher,"  Ivan  Dmitritch  continued  with  irrita- 
tion, "  and  I  don't  understand  anything  about  it.  I 
am  not  capable  of  reasoning." 

"  On  the  contrary,  your  reasoning  is  excellent." 
"  The  Stoics,  whom  you  are  parodying,  were  re- 
markable people,  but  their  doctrine  crystallized  two 
thousand  years  ago  and  has  not  advanced,  and  will 
not  advance,  an  inch  forward,  since  it  is  not  practical 
or  living.  It  had  a  success  only  with  the  minority 
which    spends    its    life    in    savouring    all    sorts    of 


Ward  No.  6  73 

theories  and  ruminating  over  them;  the  majority- 
did  not  understand  it.  A  doctrine  which  advocates 
indifference  to  wealth  and  to  the  comforts  of  life, 
and  a  contempt  for  suffering  and  death,  is  quite 
unintelligible  to  the  vast  majority  of  men,  since  that 
majority  has  never  known  wealth  or  the  comforts 
of  life ;  and  to  despise  suffering  would  mean  to  it 
despising  life  itself,  since  the  whole  existence  of 
man  is  made  up  of  the  sensations  of  hunger,  cold, 
injury,  loss,  and  a  Hamlet-like  dread  of  death.  The 
whole  of  life  lies  in  these  sensations;  one  may  be 
oppressed  by  it,  one  may  hate  it,  but  one  cannot 
despise  it.  Yes,  so,  I  repeat,  the  doctrine  of  the 
Stoics  can  never  have  a  future;  from  the  beginning 
of  time  up  to  to-day  you  see  continually  increasing 
the  struggle,  the  sensibility  to  pain,  the  capacity  of 
responding  to  stimulus." 

Ivan  Dmitritch  suddenly  lost  the  thread  of  his 
thoughts,  stopped,  and  rubbed  his  forehead  with 
vexation. 

"  I  meant  to  say  something  important,  but  I  have 
lost  it,"  he  said.  "What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  yes! 
This  is  what  I  mean:  one  of  the  Stoics  sold  himself 
into  slavery  to  redeem  his  neighbour,  so,  you  see, 
even  a  Stoic  did  react  to  stimulus,  since,  for  such  a 
generous  act  as  the  destruction  of  oneself  for  the 
sake  of  one's  neighbour,  he  must  have  had  a  soul 
capable  of  pity  and  indignation.  Here  in  prison  I 
have  forgotten  everything  I  have  learned,  or  else 
I  could  have  recalled  something  else.  Take  Christ, 
for  instance :  Christ  responded  to  reality  by  weep- 
ing, smiling,  being  sorrowful  and  moved  to  wrath, 
even  overcome  by  misery.     He  did  not  go  to  meet 


74  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

His  sufferings  with  a  smile,  He  did  not  despise  death, 
but  prayed  in  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane  that  this 
cup  might  pass  Him  by." 

Ivan  Dmitritch  laughed  and  sat  down. 

"  Granted  that  a  man's  peace  and  contentment 
lie  not  outside  but  in  himself,"  he  said,  "  granted 
that  one  must  despise  suffering  and  not  be  surprised 
at  anything,  yet  on  what  ground  do  you  preach  the 
theory?    Are  you  a  sage?    A  philosopher?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  a  philosopher,  but  everyone  ought 
to  preach  it  because  it  is  reasonable." 

"  No,  I  want  to  know  how  it  is  that  you  consider 
yourself  competent  to  judge  of  '  comprehension,' 
contempt  for  suffering,  and  so  on.  Have  you  ever 
suffered?  Have  you  any  idea  of  suffering?  Allow 
me  to  ask  you,  were  you  ever  thrashed  in  your  child- 
hood?" 

"  No,  my  parents  had  an  aversion  for  corporal 
punishment." 

"  My  father  used  to  flog  me  cruelly;  my  father 
was  a  harsh,  sickly  Government  clerk  with  a  long 
nose  and  a  yellow  neck.  But  let  us  talk  of  you.  No 
one  has  laid  a  finger  on  you  all  your  life,  no  one 
has  scared  you  nor  beaten  you;  you  are  as  strong 
as  a  bull.  You  grew  up  under  your  father's  wing 
and  studied  at  his  expense,  and  then  you  dropped 
at  once  into  a  sinecure.  For  more  than  twenty 
years  you  have  lived  rent  free  with  heating,  light- 
ing, and  service  all  provided,  and  had  the  right 
to  work  how  you  pleased  and  as  much  as  you  pleased, 
even  to  do  nothing.  You  were  naturally  a  flabby, 
lazy  man,  and  so  you  have  tried  to  arrange  your 
life  so  that  nothing  should  disturb  you  or  make  you 


Ward  No.  6  75 

move.  You  have  handed  over  your  work  to  the 
assistant  and  the  rest  of  the  rabble  while  you  sit 
in  peace  and  warmth,  save  money,  read,  amuse  your- 
self with  reflections,  with  all  sorts  of  lofty  nonsense, 
and"  (Ivan  Dmitritch  looked  at  the  doctor's  red 
nose)  "  with  boozing;  in  fact,  you  have  seen  nothing 
of  life,  you  know  absolutely  nothing  of  it,  and  are 
only  theoretically  acquainted  with  reality;  you 
despise  suffering  and  are  surprised  at  nothing  for  a 
very  simple  reason:  vanity  of  vanities,  the  external 
and  the  internal,  contempt  for  life,  for  suffering 
and  for  death,  comprehension,  true  happiness — 
that's  the  philosophy  that  suits  the  Russian  sluggard 
best.  You  see  a  peasant  beating  his  wife,  for  in- 
stance. Why  interfere?  Let  him  beat  her,  they 
will  both  die  sooner  or  later,  anyway;  and,  besides, 
he  who  beats  injures  by  his  blows,  not  the  person  he 
is  beating,  but  himself.  To  get  drunk  is  stupid  and 
unseemly,  but  if  you  drink  you  die,  and  if  you  don't 
drink  you  die.  A  peasant  woman  comes  with  tooth- 
ache .  .  .  well,  what  of  it?  Pain  is  the  idea  of 
pain,  and  besides  '  there  is  no  living  in  this  world 
without  illness;  we  shall  all  die,  and  so,  go  away, 
woman,  don't  hinder  me  from  thinking  and  drinking 
vodka.'  A  young  man  asks  advice,  what  he  is  to 
do,  how  he  is  to  live ;  anyone  else  would  think  before 
answering,  but  you  have  got  the  answer  ready :  strive 
for  '  comprehension  '  or  for  true  happiness.  And 
what  is  that  fantastic  'true  happiness'?  There's 
no  answer,  of  course.  We  are  kept  here  behind 
barred  windows,  tortured,  left  to  rot;  but  that  is 
very  good  and  reasonable,  because  there  is  no  differ- 
ence at  all  between  this  ward  and  a  warm,  snug  study. 


76  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

A  convenient  philosophy.  You  can  do  nothing,  and 
your  conscience  is  clear,  and  you  feel  you  are  wise. 
.  .  .  No,  sir,  it  is  not  philosophy,  it's  not  thinking, 
it's  not  breadth  of  vision,  but  laziness,  fakirism, 
drowsy  stupefaction.  Yes,"  cried  Ivan  Dmitritch, 
getting  angry  again,  "  you  despise  suffering,  but  I'll 
be  bound  if  you  pinch  your  finger  in  the  door  you 
will  howl  at  the  top  of  your  voice." 

"  And  perhaps  I  shouldn't  howl,"  said  Andrey 
Yefimitch,  with  a  gentle  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say!  Well,  if  you  had  a  stroke  of 
paralysis,  or  supposing  some  fool  or  bully  took  ad- 
vantage of  his  position  and  rank  to  insult  you  in 
public,  and  if  you  knew  he  could  do  it  with  im- 
punity, then  you  would  understand  what  it  means  to 
put  people  off  with  comprehension  and  true  happi- 
ness." 

"  That's  original,"  said  Andrey  Yefimitch,  laugh- 
ing with  pleasure  and  rubbing  his  hands.  "I  am 
agreebly  struck  by  your  inclination  for  drawing 
generalizations,  and  the  sketch  of  my  character  you 
have  just  drawn  is  simply  brilliant.  I  must  confess 
that  talking  to  you  gives  me  great  pleasure.  Well, 
I've  listened  to  you,  and  now  you  must  graciously 
listen  to  me." 

XI 

The  conversation  went  on  for  about  an  hour 
longer,  and  apparently  made  a  deep  impression  an 
Andrey  Yefimitch.  He  began  going  to  the  ward 
every  day.  He  went  there  in  the  mornings  and 
after  dinner,  and  often  the  dusk  of  evening  found 


Ward  No.  6  77 

him  in  conversation  with  Ivan  Dmitritch.  At  first 
Ivan  Dmitritch  held  aloof  from  him,  suspected  him 
of  evil  designs,  and  openly  expressed  his  hostility. 
But  afterwards  he  got  used  to  him,  and  his  abrupt 
manner  changed  to  one  of  condescending  irony. 

Soon  it  was  all  over  the  hospital  that  the  doctor, 
Andrey  Yefimitch,  had  taken  to  visiting  Ward  No. 
6.  No  one — neither  Sergey  Sergeyitch,  nor  Nikita, 
nor  the  nurses — could  conceive  why  he  went  there, 
why  he  stayed  there  for  hours  together,  what  he 
was  talking  about,  and  why  he  did  not  write  prescrip- 
tions. His  actions  seemed  strange.  Often  Mihail 
Averyanitch  did  not  find  him  at  home,  which  had 
never  happened  in  the  past,  and  Daryushka  was 
greatly  perturbed,  for  the  doctor  drank  his  beer  now 
at  no  definite  time,  and  sometimes  was  even  late  for 
dinner. 

One  day — it  was  at  the  end  of  June — Dr. 
Hobotov  went  to  see  Andrey  Yefimitch  about  some- 
thing. Not  finding  him  at  home,  he  proceeded  to 
look  for  him  in  the  yard;  there  he  was  told  that 
the  old  doctor  had  gone  to  see  the  mental  patients. 
Going  into  the  lodge  and  stopping  in  the  entry, 
Hobotov  heard  the  following  conversation: 

"  We  shall  never  agree,  and  you  will  not  succeed 
in  converting  me  to  your  faith,"  Ivan  Dmitritch  was 
saying  irritably;  "  you  are  utterly  ignorant  of  reality, 
and  you  have  never  known  suffering,  but  have  only 
like  a  leech  fed  beside  the  sufferings  of  others,  while 
I  have  been  in  continual  suffering  from  the  day  of  my 
birth  till  to-day.  For  that  reason,  I  tell  you  frankly, 
I  consider  myself  superior  to  you  and  more  com- 


78  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

petent  in  every  respect.  It's  not  for  you  to  teach 
me." 

"  I  have  absolutely  no  ambition  to  convert  you 
to  my  faith,"  said  Andrey  Yefimitch  gently,  and 
with  regret  that  the  other  refused  to  understand  him. 
"And  that  is  not  what  matters,  my  friend;  what 
matters  is  not  that  you  have  suffered  and  I  have 
not.  Joy  and  suffering  are  passing;  let  us  leave 
them,  never  mind  them.  What  matters  is  that  you 
and  I  think;  we  see  in  each  other  people  who  are 
capable  of  thinking  and  reasoning,  and  that  is  a 
common  bond  between  us  however  different  our 
views.  If  you  knew,  my  friend,  how  sick  I  am  of 
the  universal  senselessness,  ineptitude,  stupidity, 
and  with  what  delight  I  always  talk  with  you !  You 
are  an  intelligent  man,  and  I  enjoy  your  company." 

Hobotov  opened  the  door  an  inch  and  glanced 
into  the  ward;  Ivan  Dmitritch  in  his  night-cap  and 
the  doctor  Andrey  Yefimitch  were  sitting  side  by 
side  on  the  bed.  The  madman  was  grimacing, 
twitching,  and  convulsively  wrapping  himself  in  his 
gown,  while  the  doctor  sat  motionless  with  bowed 
head,  and  his  face  was  red  and  look  helpless 
and  sorrowful.  Hobotov  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
grinned,  and  glanced  at  Nikita.  Nikita  shrugged 
his  shoulders  too. 

Next  day  Hobotov  went  to  the  lodge,  accompanied 
by  the  assistant.  Both  stood  in  the  entry  and 
listened. 

"  I  fancy  our  old  man  has  gone  clean  off  his 
chump  1"  said  Hobotov  as  he  came  out  of  the 
lodge. 

"  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  sinners  1"  sighed  the 


Ward  No.  6  79 

decorous  Sergey  Sergeyitch,  scrupulously  avoiding 
the  puddles  that  he  might  not  muddy  his  polished 
boots.  "  I  must  own,  honoured  Yevgeny  Fyodo- 
ritch,  I  have  been  expecting  it  for  a  long  time." 

XII 

After  this  Andrey  Yefimitch  began  to  notice  a 
mysterious  air  in  all  around  him.  The  attendants, 
the  nurses,  and  the  patients  looked  at  him  inquisi- 
tively when  they  met  him,  and  then  whispered 
together.  The  superintendent's  little  daughter 
Masha,  whom  he  liked  to  meet  in  the  hospital  gar- 
den, for  some  reason  ran  away  from  him  now  when 
he  went  up  with  a  smile  to  stroke  her  on  the  head. 
The  postmaster  no  longer  said,  "  Perfectly  true," 
as  he  listened  to  him,  but  in  unaccountable  confusion 
muttered,  "  Yes,  yes,  yes  .  .  ."  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  grieved  and  thoughtful  expression;  for 
some  reason  he  took  to  advising  his  friend  to  give 
up  vodka  and  beer,  but  as  a  man  of  delicate  feeling 
he  did  not  say  this  directly,  but  hinted  it,  telling  him 
first  about  the  commanding  officer  of  his  battalion, 
an  excellent  man,  and  then  about  the  priest  of  the 
regiment,  a  capital  fellow,  both  of  whom  drank 
and  fell  ill,  but  on  giving  up  drinking  completely  re- 
gained their  health.  On  two  or  three  occasions 
Andrey  Yefimitch  was  visited  by  his  colleague 
Hobotov,  who  also  advised  him  to  give  up  spirituous 
liquors,  and  for  no  apparent  reason  recommended 
him  to  take  bromide. 

In  August  Andrey  Yefimitch  got  a  letter  from 
the  mayor  of  the  town  asking  him  to  come  on  very 


80  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

important  business.  On  arriving  at  the  town  hall 
at  the  time  fixed,  Andrey  Yefimitch  found  there 
the  military  commander,  the  superintendent  of  the 
district  school,  a  member  of  the  town  council, 
Hobotov,  and  a  plump,  fair  gentleman  who  was 
introduced  to  him  as  a  doctor.  This  doctor,  with 
a  Polish  surname  difficult  to  pronounce,  lived  at  a 
pedigree  stud-farm  twenty  miles  away,  and  was  now 
on  a  visit  to  the  town. 

"  There's  something  that  concerns  you,"  said  the 
member  of  the  town  council,  addressing  Andrey 
Yefimitch  after  they  had  all  greeted  one  another 
and  sat  down  to  the  table.  "  Here  Yevgeny 
Fyodoritch  says  that  there  is  not  room  for  the 
dispensary  in  the  main  building,  and  that  it  ought 
to  be  transferred  to  one  of  the  lodges.  That's  of 
no  consequence — of  course  it  can  be  transferred,  but 
the  point  is  that  the  lodge  wants  doing  up." 

"  Yes,  it  would  have  to  be  done  up,"  said  Andrey 
Yefimitch  after  a  moment's  thought.  "  If  the  cor- 
ner lodge,  for  instance,  were  fitted  up  as  a  dispen- 
sary, I  imagine  it  would  cost  at  least  five  hundred 
roubles.     An  unproductive  expenditure!" 

Everyone  was  silent  for  a  space. 

"  I  had  the  honour  of  submitting  to  you  ten  years 
ago,"  Andrey  Yefimitch  went  on  in  a  low  voice, 
"  that  the  hospital  in  its  present  form  is  a  luxury 
for  the  town  beyond  its  means.  It  was  built  in  the 
forties,  but  things  were  different  then.  The  town 
spends  too  much  on  unnecessary  buildings  and  super- 
fluous staff.  I  believe  with  a  different  system  two 
model  hospitals  might  be  maintained  for  the  same 
money." 


Ward  No.  6  81 

**  Well,  let  us  have  a  different  system,  then !  " 
the  member  of  the  town  council  said  briskly. 

"  I  have  already  had  the  honour  of  submitting  to 
you  that  the  medical  department  should  be  trans- 
ferred to  the  supervision  of  the  Zemstvo." 

"  Yes,  transfer  the  money  to  the  Zemstvo  and 
they  will  steal  it,"  laughed  the  fair-haired  doctor. 

"  That's  what  it  always  comes  to,"  the  member 
of  the  council  assented,  and  he  also  laughed. 

Andrey  Yefimitch  looked  with  apathetic,  lustreless 
eyes  at  the  fair-haired  doctor  and  said:  "One 
should  be  just." 

Again  there  was  silence.  Tea  was  brought  in. 
The  military  commander,  for  some  reason  much 
embarrassed,  touched  Andrey  Yefimitch's  hand 
across  the  table  and  said:  "You  have  quite  for- 
gotten us,  doctor.  But  of  course  you  are  a  hermit: 
you  don't  play  cards  and  don't  like  women.  You 
would  be  dull  with  fellows  like  us." 

They  all  began  saying  how  boring  it  was  for  a 
decent  person  to  live  in  such  a  town.  No  theatre, 
no  music,  and  at  the  last  dance  at  the  club  there 
had  been  about  twenty  ladies  and  only  two  gentle- 
men. The  young  men  did  not  dance,  but  spent  all 
the  time  crowding  round  the  refreshment  bar  or 
playing  cards. 

Not  looking  at  anyone  and  speaking  slowly  in  a 
low  voice,  Andrey  Yefimitch  began  saying  what 
a  pity,  what  a  terrible  pity  it  was  that  the  towns- 
people should  waste  their  vital  energy,  their  hearts, 
and  their  minds  on  cards  and  gossip,  and  should 
have  neither  the  power  nor  the  inclination  to  spend 
their  time  in  interesting  conversation  and  reading, 


82  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

and  should  refuse  to  take  advantage  of  the  enjoy- 
ments of  the  mind.  The  mind  alone  was  interest- 
ing and  worthy  of  attention,  all  the  rest  was  low 
and  petty.  Hobotov  listened  to  his  colleague  at- 
tentively and  suddenly  asked : 

"  Andrey  Yefimitch,  what  day  of  the  month  is 
it?" 

Having  received  an  answer,  the  fair-haired  doctor 
and  he,  in  the  tone  of  examiners  conscious  of  their 
lack  of  skill,  began  asking  Andrey  Yefimitch  what 
was  the  day  of  the  week,  how  many  days  there  were 
in  the  year,  and  whether  it  was  true  that  there  was 
a  remarkable  prophet  living  in  Ward  No.  6. 

In  response  to  the  last  question  Andrey  Yefimitch 
turned  rather  red  and  said:  "Yes,  he  is  mentally 
deranged,  but  he  is  an  interesting  young  man." 

They  asked  him  no  other  questions. 

When  he  was  putting  on  his  overcoat  in  the  entry, 
the  military  commander  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  said  with  a  sigh  : 

"  It's  time  for  us  old  fellows  to  rest!  " 

As  he  came  out  of  the  hall,  Andrey  Yefimitch 
understood  that  it  had  been  a  committee  appointed 
to  enquire  into  his  mental  condition.  He  recalled 
the  questions  that  had  been  asked  him,  flushed  crim- 
son, and  for  some  reason,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  felt  bitterly  grieved  for  medical  science. 

"  My  God  .  .  ."  he  thought,  remembering  how 
these  doctors  had  just  examined  him;  "why,  they 
have  only  lately  been  hearing  lectures  on  mental 
pathology;  they  had  passed  an  examination — what's 
the  explanation  of  this  crass  ignorance?  They  have 
not  a  conception  of  mental  pathology!  " 


Ward  No.  6  83 

And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  insulted 
and  moved  to  anger. 

In  the  evening  of  the  same  day  Mihail  Averya- 
nitch  came  to  see  him.  The  postmaster  went  up 
to  him  without  waiting  to  greet  him,  took  him  by 
both  hands,  and  said  in  an  agitated  voice: 

"  My  dear  fellow,  my  dear  friend,  show  me  that 
you  believe  in  my  genuine  affection  and  look  on  me  as 
your  friend!"  And  preventing  Andrey  Yefimitch 
from  speaking,  he  went  on,  growing  excited:  "I 
love  you  for  your  culture  and  nobility  of  soul.  Listen 
to  me,  my  dear  fellow.  The  rules  of  their  profession 
compel  the  doctors  to  conceal  the  truth  from  you, 
but  I  blurt  out  the  plain  truth  like  a  soldier.  You 
are  not  well !  Excuse  me,  my  dear  fellow,  but  it  is 
the  truth;  everyone  about  you  has  been  noticing  it 
for  a  long  time.  Dr.  Yevgeny  Fyodoritch  has 
just  told  me  that  it  is  essential  for  you  to  rest  and 
distract  your  mind  for  the  sake  of  your  health.  Per- 
fectly true  !  Excellent  I  In  a  day  or  two  I  am  taking 
a  holiday  and  am  going  away  for  a  sniff  of  a  different 
atmosphere.  Show  that  you  are  a  friend  to  me,  let 
us  go  together!  Let  us  go  for  a  jaunt  as  in  the 
good  old  days." 

"  I  feel  perfectly  well,"  said  Andrey  Yefimitch 
after  a  moment's  thought.  "  I  can't  go  away.  Allow 
me  to  show  you  my  friendship  in  some  other  way." 

To  go  off  with  no  object,  without  his  books,  with- 
out his  Daryushka,  without  his  beer,  to  break 
abruptly  through  the  routine  of  life,  established  for 
twenty  years — the  idea  for  the  first  minute  struck 
him  as  wild  and  fantastic,  but  he  remembered  the 
conversation  at  the  Zemstvo  committee  and  the  de- 


84  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

pressing  feelings  with  which  he  had  returned  home, 
and  the  thought  of  a  brief  absence  from  the  town  in 
which  stupid  people  looked  on  him  as  a  madman 
was  pleasant  to  him. 

"  And  where  precisely  do  you  intend  to  go?  "  he 
asked. 

"  To  Moscow,  to  Petersburg,  to  Warsaw.  .  .  . 
I  spent  the  five  happiest  years  of  my  life  in  Warsaw. 
What  a  marvellous  town!  Let  us  go,  my  dear 
fellow!" 

XIII 

A  week  later  it  was  suggested  to  Andrey  Yefimitch 
that  he  should  have  a  rest — that  is,  send  in  his 
resignation — a  suggestion  he  received  with  indiffer- 
ence, and  a  week  later  still,  Mihail  Averyanitch  and 
he  were  sitting  in  a  posting  carriage  driving  to  the 
nearest  railway  station.  The  days  were  cool  and 
bright,  with  a  blue  sky  and  a  transparent  distance. 
They  were  two  days  driving  the  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  to  the  railway  station,  and  stayed  two  nights 
on  the  way.  When  at  the  posting  station  the  glasses 
given  them  for  their  tea  had  not  been  properly 
washed,  or  the  drivers  were  slow  in  harnessing  the 
horses,  Mihail  Averyanitch  would  turn  crimson,  and 
quivering  all  over  would  shout: 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  Don't  argue  !  " 
And  in  the  carriage  he  talked  without  ceasing  for 
a  moment,  describing  his  campaigns  in  the  Caucasus 
and  in  Poland.  What  adventures  he  had  had,  what 
meetings!  He  talked  loudly  and  opened  his 
eyes  so  wide  with  wonder  that  he  might  well  be 
thought  to  be  lying.     Moreover,   as  he  talked  he 


Ward  No.  6  85 

breathed  In  Andrey  Yefimitch's  face  and  laughed 
into  his  ear.  This  bothered  the  doctor  and  pre- 
vented him  from  thinking  or  concentrating  his  mind. 

In  the  train  they  travelled,  from  motives  of 
economy,  third-class  in  a  non-smoking  compartment. 
Half  the  passengers  were  decent  people.  Mihail 
Averyanitch  soon  made  friends  with  everyone,  and 
moving  from  one  seat  to  another,  kept  saying  loudly 
that  they  ought  not  to  travel  by  these  appalling  lines. 
It  was  a  regular  swindle !  A  very  different  thing 
riding  on  a  good  horse :  one  could  do  over  seventy 
miles  a  day  and  feel  fresh  and  well  after  it.  And 
our  bad  harvests  were  due  to  the  draining  of  the 
Pinsk  marshes;  altogether,  the  way  things  were  done 
was  dreadful.  He  got  excited,  talked  loudly,  and 
would  not  let  others  speak.  This  endless  chatter 
to  the  accompaniment  of  loud  laughter  and  expres- 
sive gestures  wearied  Andrey  Yefimitch. 

"  Which  of  us  is  the  madman?  "  he  thought  with 
vexation.  "  I,  who  try  not  to  disturb  my  fellow- 
passengers  in  any  way,  or  this  egoist  who  thinks 
that  he  is  cleverer  and  more  interesting  than  anyone 
here,  and  so  will  leave  no  one  in  peace?  " 

In  Moscow  Mihail  Averyanitch  put  on  a  military 
coat  without  epaulettes  and  trousers  with  red  braid 
on  them.  He  wore  a  military  cap  and  overcoat  in 
the  street,  and  soldiers  saluted  him.  It  seemed  to 
Andrey  Yefimitch,  now,  that  his  companion  was  a 
man  who  had  flung  away  all  that  was  good  and 
kept  only  what  was  bad  of  all  the  characteristics  of 
a  country  gentleman  that  he  had  once  possessed. 
He  liked  to  be  waited  on  even  when  it  was  quite 
unnecessary.     The  matches  would  be  lying  before 


86  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

him  on  the  table,  and  he  would  see  them  and  shout 
to  the  waiter  to  give  him  the  matches;  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  appear  before  a  maidservant  in  nothing 
but  his  underclothes;  he  used  the  familiar  mode  of 
address  to  all  footmen  indiscriminately,  even  old 
men,  and  when  he  was  angry  called  them  fools  and 
blockheads.  This,  Andrey  Yefimitch  thought,  was 
like  a  gentleman,  but  disgusting. 

First  of  all  Mihail  Averyanitch  led  his  friend  to 
the  Iversky  Madonna.  He  prayed  fervently,  shed- 
ding tears  and  bowing  down  to  the  earth,  and  when 
he  had  finished,  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  said: 

"  Even  though  one  does  not  believe  it  makes 
one  somehow  easier  when  one  prays  a  little.  Kiss 
the  ikon,  my  dear  fellow." 

Andrey  Yefimitch  was  embarrassed  and  he  kissed 
the  image,  while  Mihail  Averyanitch  pursed  up  his 
lips  and  prayed  in  a  whisper,  and  again  tears  came 
into  his  eyes.  Then  they  went  to  the  Kremlin  and 
looked  there  at  the  Tsar-cannon  and  the  Tsar-bell, 
and  even  touched  them  with  their  fingers,  admired 
the  view  over  the  river,  visited  St.  Saviour's  and  the 
Rumyantsev  museum. 

They  dined  at  Tyestov's.  Mihail  Averyanitch 
looked  a  long  time  at  the  menu,  stroking  his  whiskers, 
and  said  in  the  tone  of  a  gourmand  accustomed  to 
dine  in  restaurants: 

"  We  shall  see  what  you  give  us  to  eat  to-day, 
angel!" 

XIV 

The  doctor  walked  about,  looked  at  things,  ate 
and  drank,  but  he  had  all  the  while  one  feeling:  an- 


Ward  No.  6  87 

noyance  with  Mihail  Averyanitch.  He  longed  to  have 
a  rest  from  his  friend,  to  get  away  from  him,  to 
hide  himself,  while  the  friend  thought  it  his  duty 
not  to  let  the  doctor  move  a  step  away  from  him, 
and  to  provide  him  with  as  many  distractions  as 
possible.  When  there  was  nothing  to  look  at  he 
entertained  him  with  conversation.  For  two  days 
Andrey  Yefimitch  endured  it,  but  on  the  third  he 
announced  to  his  friend  that  he  was  ill  and  wanted 
to  stay  at  home  for  the  whole  day;  his  friend  replied 
that  in  that  case  he  would  stay  too — that  really 
he  needed  rest,  for  he  was  run  off  his  legs  already. 
Andrey  Yefimitch  lay  on  the  sofa,  with  his  face  to 
the  back,  and  clenching  his  teeth,  listened  to  his 
friend,  who  assured  him  with  heat  that  sooner  or 
later  France  would  certainly  thrash  Germany,  that 
there  were  a  great  many  scoundrels  in  Moscow,  and 
that  it  was  impossible  to  judge  of  a  horse's  quality 
by  its  outward  appearance.  The  doctor  began  to 
have  a  buzzing  in  his  ears  and  palpitations  of  the 
heart,  but  out  of  delicacy  could  not  bring  himself 
to  beg  his  friend  to  go  away  or  hold  his  tongue. 
Fortunately  Mihail  Averyanitch  grew  weary  of 
sitting  in  the  hotel  room,  and  after  dinner  he  went 
out  for  a  walk. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  Andrey  Yefimitch  aban- 
doned himself  to  a  feeling  of  relief.  How  pleasant 
to  lie  motionless  on  the  sofa  and  to  know  that  one 
is  alone  in  the  room!  Real  happiness  is  impossible 
without  solitude.  The  fallen  angel  betrayed  God 
probably  because  he  longed  for  solitude,  of  which 
the  angels  know  nothing.  Andrey  Yefimitch  wanted 
to  think  about  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  during 


88  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  last  few  days,  but  he  could  not  get  Mihail 
Averyanitch  out  of  his  head. 

"  Why,  he  has  taken  a  holiday  and  come  with  me 
out  of  friendship,  out  of  generosity,"  thought  the 
doctor  with  vexation;  "  nothing  could  be  worse  than 
this  friendly  supervision.  I  suppose  he  is  good- 
natured  and  generous  and  a  lively  fellow,  but  he  is 
a  bore.  An  insufferable  bore.  In  the  same  way 
there  are  people  who  never  say  anything  but  what 
is  clever  and  good,  yet  one  feels  that  they  are  dull- 
witted  people." 

For  the  following  days  Andrey  Yefimitch  de- 
clared himself  ill  and  would  not  leave  the  hotel 
room;  he  lay  with  his  face  to  the  back  of  the  sofa, 
and  suffered  agonies  of  weariness  when  his  friend 
entertained  him  with  conversation,  or  rested  when 
his  friend  was  absent.  He  was  vexed  with  himself 
for  having  come,  and  with  his  friend,  who  grew 
every  day  more  talkative  and  more  free-and-easy; 
he  could  not  succeed  in  attuning  his  thoughts  to  a 
serious  and  lofty  level. 

"  This  is  what  I  get  from  the  real  life  Ivan  Dmit- 
ritch  talked  about,"  he  thought,  angry  at  his  own 
pettiness.  "  It's  of  no  consequence,  though.  .  .  . 
I  shall  go  home,  and  everything  will  go  on  as 
before.   .   .   ." 

It  was  the  same  thing  in  Petersburg  too;  for 
whole  days  together  he  did  not  leave  the  hotel  room, 
but  lay  on  the  sofa  and  only  got  up  to  drink  beer. 

Mihail  Averyanitch  was  all  haste  to  get  to 
Warsaw. 

"  My  dear  man,  what  should  I  go  there  for?  " 


Ward  No.  6  89 

said  Andrey  Yefimitch  in  an  imploring  voice.    "  You 
go  alone  and  let  me  get  home !     I  entreat  you!  " 

"  On  no  account,"  protested  Mihail  Averyanitch. 
"  It's  a  marvellous  town." 

Andrey  Yefimitch  had  not  the  strength  of  will 
to  insist  on  his  own  way,  and  much  against  his  in- 
clination went  to  Warsaw.  There  he  did  not  leave 
the  hotel  room,  but  lay  on  the  sofa,  furious  with 
himself,  with  his  friend,  and  with  the  waiters,  who 
obstinately  refused  to  understand  Russian;  while 
Mihail  Averyanitch,  healthy,  hearty,  and  full  of 
spirits  as  usual,  went  about  the  town  from  morning 
to  night,  looking  for  his  old  acquaintances.  Several 
times  he  did  not  return  home  at  night.  After  one 
night  spent  in  some  unknown  haunt  he  returned  home 
early  in  the  morning,  in  a  violently  excited  condition, 
with  a  red  face  and  tousled  hair.  For  a  long  time 
he  walked  up  and  down  the  rooms  muttering  some- 
thing to  himself,  then  stopped  and  said: 

"  Honour  before  everything." 

After  walking  up  and  down  a  little  longer  he 
clutched  his  head  in  both  hands  and  pronounced  in 
a  tragic  voice:  "Yes,  honour  before  everything! 
Accursed  be  the  moment  when  the  idea  first  entered 
my  head  to  visit  this  Babylon!  My  dear  friend," 
he  added,  addressing  the  doctor,  "  you  may  despise 
me,  I  have  played  and  lost;  lend  me  five  hundred 
roubles!  " 

Andrey  Yefimitch  counted  out  five  hundred  roubles 
and  gave  them  to  his  friend  without  a  word.  The 
latter,  still  crimson  with  shame  and  anger,  inco- 
herently articulated  some  useless  vow,  put  on  his 
cap,  and  went  out.     Returning  two  hours  later  he 


90  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

flopped  into  an  easy-chair,  heaved  a  loud  sigh,  and 
said: 

"  My  honour  is  saved.  Let  us  go,  my  friend;  I 
do  not  care  to  remain  another  hour  in  this  accursed 
town.    Scoundrels!    Austrian  spies  !  " 

By  the  time  the  friends  were  back  in  their  own 
town  it  was  November,  and  deep  snow  was  lying 
in  the  streets.  Dr.  Hobotov  had  Andrey  Yefimitch's 
post;  he  was  still  living  in  his  old  lodgings,  waiting 
for  Andrey  Yefimitch  to  arrive  and  clear  out  of  the 
hospital  apartments.  The  plain  woman  whom  he 
called  his  cook  was  already  established  in  one  of 
the  lodges. 

Fresh  scandals  about  the  hospital  were  going  the 
round  of  the  town.  It  was  said  that  the  plain  woman 
had  quarrelled  with  the  superintendent,  and  that 
the  latter  had  crawled  on  his  knees  before  her  beg- 
ging forgiveness.  On  the  very  first  day  he  arrived 
Andrey  Yefimitch  had  to  look  out  for  lodgings. 

"  My  friend,"  the  postmaster  said  to  him  timidly, 
"excuse  an  indiscreet  question:  what  means  have 
you  at  your  disposal?" 

Andrey  Yefimitch,  without  a  word,  counted  out 
his  money  and  said :    "  Eighty-six  roubles." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  Mihail  Averyanitch  brought 
out  in  confusion,  misunderstanding  him;  "I  mean, 
what  have  you  to  live  on?  " 

"  I  tell  you,  eighty-six  roubles  ...  I  have  noth- 
ing else." 

Mihail  Averyanitch  looked  upon  the  doctor  as 
an  honourable  man,  yet  he  suspected  that  he  had 
accumulated  a  fortune  of  at  least  twenty  thousand. 
Now  learning  that  Andrey  Yefimitch  was  a  beggar, 


Ward  No.  6  91 

that  he  had  nothing  to  live  on  he  was  for  some 
reason  suddenly  moved  to  tears  and  embraced  his 
friend. 


XV 

Andrey  Yefimitch  now  lodged  in  a  little  house 
with  three  windows.  There  were  only  three  rooms 
besides  the  kitchen  in  the  little  house.  The  doctor 
lived  in  two  of  them  which  looked  into  the  street, 
while  Daryushka  and  the  landlady  with  her  three 
children  lived  in  the  third  room  and  the  kitchen. 
Sometimes  the  landlady's  lover,  a  drunken  peasant 
who  was  rowdy  and  reduced  the  children  and 
Daryushka  to  terror,  would  come  for  the  night. 
When  he  arrived  and  established  himself  in  the 
kitchen  and  demanded  vodka,  they  all  felt  very 
uncomfortable,  and  the  doctor  would  be  moved  by 
pity  to  take  the  crying  children  into  his  room  and 
let  them  lie  on  his  floor,  and  this  gave  him  great 
satisfaction. 

He  got  up  as  before  at  eight  o'clock,  and  after 
his  morning  tea  sat  down  to  read  his  old  books  and 
magazines:  he  had  no  money  for  new  ones.  Either 
because  the  books  were  old,  or  perhaps  because  of 
the  change  in  his  surroundings,  reading  exhausted 
him,  and  did  not  grip  his  attention  as  before.  That 
he  might  not  spend'  his  time  in  idleness  he  made 
a  detailed  catalogue  of  his  books  and  gummed  little 
labels  on  their  backs,  and  this  mechanical,  tedious 
work  seemed  to  him  more  interesting  than  reading. 
The  monotonous,  tedious  work  lulled  his  thoughts 
to  sleep  in  some  unaccountable  way,  and  the  time 


92  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

passed  quickly  while  he  thought  of  nothing.  Even 
sitting  in  the  kitchen,  peeling  potatoes  with 
Daryushka  or  picking  over  the  buckwheat  grain, 
seemed  to  him  interesting.  On  Saturdays  and  Sun- 
days he  went  to  church.  Standing  near  the  wall  and 
half  closing  his  eyes,  he  listened  to  the  singing  and 
thought  of  his  father,  of  his  mother,  of  the  uni- 
versity, of  the  religions  of  the  world;  he  felt  calm 
and  melancholy,  and  as  he  went  out  of  the  church 
afterwards  he  regretted  that  the  service  was  so  soon 
over.  Kh  went  twice  to  the  hospital  to  talk  to  Ivan 
Dmitritch.  But  on  both  occasions  Ivan  Dmitritch 
was  unusually  excited  and  ill-humoured;  he  bade  the 
doctor  leave  him  in  peace,  as  he  had  long  been  sick 
of  empty  chatter,  and  declared,  to  make  up  for  all 
his  sufferings,  he  asked  from  the  damned  scoundrels 
only  one  favour — solitary  confinement.  Surely  they 
would  not  refuse  him  even  that?  On  both  occasions 
when  Andrey  Yefimitch  was  taking  leave  of  him  and 
wishing  him  good-night,  he  answered  rudely  and 
said: 

"  Go  to  hell !  " 

And  Andrey  Yefimitch  did  not  know  now  whether 
to  go  to  him  for  the  third  time  or  not.  He  longed 
to  go. 

In  old  days  Andrey  Yefimitch  used  to  walk  about 
his  rooms  and  think  in  the  interval  after  dinner, 
but  now  from  dinner-time  till  evening  tea  he  lay  on 
the  sofa  with  his  face  to  the  back  and  gave  himself 
up  to  trivial  thoughts  which  he  could  not  struggle 
against.  He  was  mortified  that  after  more  than 
twenty  years  of  service  he  had  been  given  neither  a 
pension  nor  any  assistance.     It  is  true  that  he  had 


Ward  No.  6  93 

not  done  his  work  honestly,  but,  then,  all  who  are 
in  the  Service  get  a  pension  without  distinction 
whether  they  are  honest  or  not.  Contemporary 
justice  lies  precisely  in  the  bestowal  of  grades,  or- 
ders, and  pensions,  not  for  moral  qualities  or  capaci- 
ties, but  for  service  whatever  it  may  have  been  like. 
Why  was  he  alone  to  be  an  exception?  He  had  no 
money  at  all.  He  was  ashamed  to  pass  by  the  shop 
and  look  at  the  woman  who  owned  it.  He  owed 
thirty-two  roubles  for  beer  already.  There  was 
money  owing  to  the  landlady  also.  Daryushka  sold 
old  clothes  and  books  on  the  sly,  and  told  lies  to  the 
landlady,  saying  that  the  doctor  was  just  going  to 
receive  a  large  sum  of  money. 

He  was  angry  with  himself  for  having  wasted  on 
travelling  the  thousand  roubles  he  had  saved  up. 
How  useful  that  thousand  roubles  would  have  been 
now!  He  was  vexed  that  people  would  not  leave 
him  in  peace.  Hobotov  thought  it  his  duty  to  look 
in  on  his  sick  colleague  from  time  to  time.  Every- 
thing about  him  was  revolting  to  Andrey  Yefimitch 
— his  well-fed  face  and  vulgar,  condescending  tone, 
and  his  use  of  the  word  "  colleague,"  and  his  high 
top-boots;  the  most  revolting  thing  was  that  he 
thought  it  was  his  duty  to  treat  Andrey  Yefimitch, 
and  thought  that  he  really  was  treating  him.  On 
every  visit  he  brought  a  bottle  of  bromide  and 
rhubarb  pills. 

Mihail  Averyanitch,  too,  thought  it  his  duty  to 
visit  his  friend  and  entertain  him.  Every  time  he 
went  in  to  Andrey  Yefimitch  with  an  affectation  of 
ease,  laughed  constrainedly,  and  began  assuring  him 
that  he  was  looking  very  well  to-day,  and  that,  thank 


94  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

God,  he  was  on  the  highroad  to  recovery,  and  from 
this  it  might  be  concluded  that  he  looked  on  his 
friend's  condition  as  hopeless.  He  had  not  yet 
repaid  his  Warsaw  debt,  and  was  overwhelmed  by 
shame;  he  was  constrained,  and  so  tried  to  laugh 
louder  and  talk,  more  amusingly.  His  anecdotes  and 
descriptions  seemed  endless  now,  and  were  an  agony 
both  to  Andrey  Yefimitch  and  himself. 

In  his  presence  Andrey  Yefimitch  usually  lay  on 
the  sofa  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  listened  with 
his  teeth  clenched;  his  soul  was  oppressed  with 
rankling  disgust,  and  after  every  visit  from  his  friend 
he  felt  as  though  this  disgust  had  risen  higher,  and 
was  mounting  into  his  throat. 

To  stifle  petty  thoughts  he  made  haste  to  reflect 
that  he  himself,  and  Hobotov,  and  Mihaii  Averya- 
nitch,  would  all  sooner  or  later  perish  without  leav- 
ing any  trace  on  the  world.  If  one  imagined  some 
spirit  flying  by  the  earthly  globe  in  space  in  a  million 
years  he  would  see  nothing  but  clay  and  bare  rocks. 
Everything — culture  and  the  moral  law — would 
pass  away  and  not  even  a  burdock  would  grow  out 
of  them.  Of  what  consequence  was  shame  in  the 
presence  of  a  shopkeeper,  of  what  consequence  was 
the  insignificant  Hobotov  or  the  wearisome  friend- 
ship of  Mihaii  Averyanitch?  It  was  all  trivial  and 
nonsensical. 

But  such  reflections  did  not  help  him  now.  Scarcely 
had  he  imagined  the  earthly  globe  in  a  million  years, 
when  Hobotov  in  his  high  top-boots  or  Mihaii 
Averyanitch  with  his  forced  laugh  would  appear 
from  behind  a  bare  rock,  and  he  even  heard  the 
shamefaced   whisper:      "The   Warsaw   debt.   .   .  . 


Ward  No.  6  95 

I  will  repay  it  in  a  day  or  two,  my  dear  fellow,  with- 
out fail.   .   .   ." 


XVI 

One  day  Mihail  Averyanitch  came  after  dinner 
when  Andrey  Yefimitch  was  lying  on  the  sofa.  It 
so  happened  that  Hobotov  arrived  at  the  same  time 
with  his  bromide.  Andrey  Yefimitch  got  up  heavily 
and  sat  down,  leaning  both  arms  on  the  sofa. 

"  You  have  a  much  better  colour  to-day  than  you 
had  yesterday,  my  dear  man,"  began  Mihail  Averya- 
nitch. "  Yes,  you  look  jolly.  Upon  my  soul,  you 
do!" 

"  It's  high  time  you  were  well,  colleague,"  said 
Hobotov,  yawning.  "  I'll  be  bound,  you  are  sick  of 
this  bobbery." 

"  And  we  shall  recover,"  said  Mihail  Averya- 
nitch cheerfully.  "  We  shall  live  another  hundred 
years!    To  be  sure  !  " 

"  Not  a  hundred  years,  but  another  twenty," 
Hobotov  said  reassuringly.  "  It's  all  right,  all  right, 
colleague;  don't  lose  heart.  .  .  .  Don't  go  piling 
it  on!" 

"  We'll  show  what  we  can  do,"  laughed  Mihail 
Averyanitch,  and  he  slapped  his  friend  on  the  knee. 
"  We'll  show  them  yet !  Next  summer,  please  God, 
we  shall  be  off  to  the  Caucasus,  and  we  will  ride  all 
over  it  on  horseback — trot,  trot,  trot !  And  when 
we  are  back  from  the  Caucasus  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  we  will  all  dance  at  the  wedding."  Mihail  Averya- 
nitch gave  a  sly  wink.  "  We'll  marry  you,  my  dear 
boy,  we'll  marry  you.   .   .   ." 


96  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Andrey  Yefimitch  felt  suddenly  that  the  rising 
disgust  had  mounted  to  his  throat,  his  heart  began 
beating  violently. 

"  That's  vulgar,"  he  said,  getting  up  quickly  and 
walking  away  to  the  window.  "  Don't  you  under- 
stand that  you  are  talking  vulgar  nonsense?  " 

He  meant  to  go  on  softly  and  politely,  but  against 
his  will  he  suddenly  clenched  his  fists  and  raised  them 
above  his  head. 

"  Leave  me  alone,"  he  shouted  in  a  voice  unlike 
his  own,  flushing  crimson  and  shaking  all  over.  "  Go 
away,  both  of  you !" 

Mihail  Averyanitch  and  Hobotov  got  up  and 
stared  at  him  first  with  amazement  and  then  with 
alarm. 

"Go  away,  both!"  Andrey  Yefimitch  went  on 
shouting.  "  Stupid  people  !  Foolish  people  !  I 
don't  want  either  your  friendship  or  your  medicines, 
stupid  man!    Vulgar!    Nasty!" 

Hobotov  and  Mihail  Averyanitch,  looking  at  each 
other  in  bewilderment,  staggered  to  the  door  and 
went  out.  Andrey  Yefimitch  snatched  up  the  bottle 
of  bromide  and  flung  it  after  them;  the  bottle  broke 
with  a  crash  on  the  door-frame. 

"  Go  to  the  devil !  "  he  shouted  in  a  tearful  voice, 
running  out  into  the  passage.     "  To  the  devil !  " 

When  his  guests  were  gone  Andrey  Yefimitch  lay 
down  on  the  sofa,  trembling  as  though  in  a  fever, 
and  went  on  for  a  long  while  repeating:  "  Stupid 
people!     Foolish  people!" 

When  he  was  calmer,  what  occurred  to  him  first 
of  all  was  the  thought  that  poor  Mihail  Averyanitch 
must  be   feeling   fearfully   ashamed   and  depressed 


Ward  No.  6  97 

now,  and  that  it  was  all  dreadful.  Nothing  like 
this  had  ever  happened  to  him  before.  Where  was 
his  intelligence  and  his  tact?  Where  was  his 
comprehension  of  things  and  his  philosophical 
indifference? 

The  doctor  could  not  sleep  all  night  for  shame 
and  vexation  with  himself,  and  at  ten  o'clock  next 
morning  he  went  to  the  post  office  and  apologized 
to  the  postmaster. 

"  We  won't  think  again  of  what  has  happened," 
Mihail  Averyanitch,  greatly  touched,  said  with  a 
sigh,  warmly  pressing  his  hand.  "  Let  bygones  be 
bygones.  Lyubavkin,"  he  suddenly  shouted  so 
loud  that  all  the  postmen  and  other  persons  present 
started,  "hand  a  chair;  and  you  wait,"  he  shouted 
to  a  peasant  woman  who  was  stretching  out  a  regis- 
tered letter  to  him  through  the  grating.  "  Don't 
you  see  that  I  am  busy?  We  will  not  remember 
the  past,"  he  went  on,  affectionately  addressing 
Andrey  Yefimitch;  "  sit  down,  I  beg  you,  my  dear 
fellow." 

For  a  minute  he  stroked  his  knees  in  silence,  and 
then  said: 

"  I  have  never  had  a  thought  of  taking  offence. 
Illness  is  no  joke,  I  understand.  Your  attack  fright- 
ened the  doctor  and  me  yesterday,  and  we  had  a 
long  talk  about  you  afterwards.  My  dear  friend, 
why  won't  you  treat  your  illness  seriously?  You 
can't  go  on  like  this.  .  .  .  Excuse  me  speaking 
openly  as  a  friend,"  whispered  Mihail  Averyanitch. 
"You  live  in  the  most  unfavourable  surroundings, 
in  a  crowd,  in  uncleanliness,  no  one  to  look  after 
you,  no  money  for  proper  treatment.   .   .  .   My  dear 


98  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

friend,  the  doctor  and  I  implore  you  with  all  our 
hearts,  listen  to  our  advice:  go  into  the  hospital! 
There  you  will  have  wholesome  food  and  attend- 
ance and  treatment.  Though,  between  ourselves, 
Yevgeny  Fyodoritch  is  mauvais  ton,  yet  he  does 
understand  his  work,  you  can  fully  rely  upon  him. 
He  has  promised  me  he  will  look  after  you." 

Andrey  Yefimitch  was  touched  by  the  postmaster's 
genuine  sympathy  and  the  tears  which  suddenly  glit- 
tered on  his  cheeks. 

''My  honoured  friend,  don't  believe  it!"  he 
whispered,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart;  "  don't 
believe  them.  It's  all  a  sham.  My  illness  is  only 
that  in  twenty  years  I  have  only  found  one  intelligent 
man  in  the  whole  town,  and  he  is  mad.  I  am  not 
ill  at  all,  it's  simply  that  I  have  got  into  an  enchanted 
circle  which  there  is  no  getting  out  of.  -I  don't  care; 
I  am  ready  for  anything." 

"  Go  into  the  hospital,  my  dear  fellow." 
"  I  don't  care  if  it  were  into  the  pit." 
"Give  me  your  word,  my  dear  man,  that  you  will 
obey  Yevgeny  Fyodoritch  in  everything." 

"  Certainly  I  will  give  you  my  word.  But  I  re- 
peat, my  honoured  friend,  I  have  got  into  an  en- 
chanted circle.  Now  everything,  even  the  genuine 
sympathy  of  my  friends,  leads  to  the  same  thing— 
to  my  ruin.  I  am  going  to  my  ruin,  and  I  have 
the  manliness  to  recognize  it." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  will  recover." 

"What's  the  use  of  saying  that?"  said  Andrey 

Yefimitch,   with   irritation.      "  There   are   few  men 

who  at  the  end  of  their  lives  do  not  experience  what 

I  am  experiencing  now.    When  you  are  told  that  you 


Ward  No.  6  99 

have  something  such  as  diseased  kidneys  or  enlarged 
heart,  and  you  begin  being  treated  for  it,  or  are 
told  you  are  mad  or  a  criminal — that  is,  in  fact, 
when  people  suddenly  turn  their  attention  to  you — 
you  may  be  sure  you  have  got  into  an  enchanted 
circle  from  which  you  will  not  escape.  You  will  try 
to  escape  and  make  things  worse.  You  had  better 
give  in,  for  no  human  efforts  can  save  you.  So  it 
seems  to  me." 

Meanwhile  the  public  was  crowding  at  the  grat- 
ing. That  he  might  not  be  in  their  way,  Andrey 
Yefimitch  got  up  and  began  to  take  leave.  Mihail 
Averyanitch  made  him  promise  on  his  honour  once 
more,  and  escorted  him  to  the  outer  door. 

Towards  evening  on  the  same  day  Hobotov,  in 
his  sheepskin  and  his  high  top-boots,  suddenly  made 
his  appearance,  and  said  to  Andrey  Yefimitch  in  a 
tone  as  though  nothing  had  happened  the  day 
before : 

"  I  have  come  on  business,  colleague.  I  have 
come  to  ask  you  whether  you  would  not  join  me 
in  a  consultation.     Eh?" 

Thinking  that  Hobotov  wanted  to  distract  his 
mind  with  an  outing,  or  perhaps  really  to  enable  him 
to  earn  something,  Andrey  Yefimitch  put  on  his  coat 
and  hat,  and  went  out  with  him  into  the  street.  He 
was  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  smooth  over  his  fault 
of  the  previous  day  and  to  be  reconciled,  and  in  his 
heart  thanked  Hobotov,  who  did  not  even  allude  to 
yesterday's  scene  and  was  evidendy  sparing  him. 
One  would  never  have  expected  such  delicacy  from 
this  uncultured  man. 


100  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"Where  is  your  invalid?"  asked  Andrey 
Yefimitch. 

11  In  the  hospital.  ...  I  have  long  wanted  to 
show  him  to  you.    A  very  interesting  case." 

They  went  into  the  hospital  yard,  and  going  round 
the  main  building,  turned  towards  the  lodge  where 
the  mental  cases  were  kept,  and  all  this,  for  some 
reason,  in  silence.  When  they  went  into  the  lodge 
Nikita  as  usual  jumped  up  and  stood  at  attention. 

"  One  of  the  patients  here  has  a  lung  complica- 
tion," Hobotov  said  in  an  undertone,  going  into  the 
ward  with  Andrey  Yefimitch.  "  You  wait  here,  I'll 
be  back  directly.    I  am  going  for  a  stethoscope." 

And  he  went  away. 

XVII 

It  was  getting  dusk.  Ivan  Dmitritch  was  lying 
on  his  bed  with  his  face  thrust  into  his  pillow;  the 
paralytic  was  sitting  motionless,  crying  quietly  and 
moving  his  lips.  The  fat  peasant  and  the  former 
sorter  were  asleep.     It  was  quiet. 

Andrey  Yefimitch  sat  down  on  Ivan  Dmitritch's 
bed  and  waited.  But  half  an  hour  passed,  and  in- 
stead of  Hobotov,  Nikita  came  into  the  ward  with 
a  dressing-gown,  some  underlinen,  and  a  pair  of 
slippers  in  a  heap  on  his  arm. 

"  Please  change  your  things,  your  honour,"  he 
said  softly.  "Here  is  your  bed;  come  this  way," 
he  added,  pointing  to  an  empty  bedstead  which  had 
obviously  been  recently  brought  into  the  ward.  "  It's 
all  right;  please  God,  you  will  recover." 

Andrey   Yefimitch   understood   it   all.      Without 


Ward  No.  6  10 1 

saying  a  word  he  crossed  to  the  bed  to  which  Nikita 
pointed  and  sat  down;  seeing  that  Nikita  was  stand- 
ing waiting,  he  undressed  entirely  and  he  felt 
ashamed.  Then  he  put  on  the  hospital  clothes;  the 
drawers  were  very  short,  the  shirt  was  long,  and 
the  dressing-gown  smelt  of  smoked  fish. 

"  Please  God,  you  will  recover,"  repeated  Nikita, 
and  he  gathered  up  Andrey  Yefimitch's  clothes  into 
his  arms,  went  out,  and  shut  the  door  after  him. 

"  No  matter  .  .  ."  thought  Andrey  Yefimitch, 
wrapping  himself  in  his  dressing-gown  in  a  shame- 
faced way  and  feeling  that  he  looked  like  a  convict 
in  his  new  costume.  "  It's  no  matter.  ...  It  does 
not  matter  whether  it's  a  dress-coat  or  a  uniform 
or  this  dressing-gown.  .  .  ." 

But  how  about  his  watch?  And  the  notebook 
that  was  in  the  side-pocket?  And  his  cigarettes? 
Where  had  Nikita  taken  his  clothes?  Now  perhaps 
to  the  day  of  his  death  he  would  not  put  on  trousers, 
a  waistcoat,  and  high  boots.  It  was  all  somehow 
strange  and  even  incomprehensible  at  first.  Andrey 
Yefimitch  was  even  now  convinced  that  there  was 
no  difference  between  his  landlady's  house  and  Ward 
No.  6,  that  everything  in  this  world  was  nonsense 
and  vanity  of  vanities.  And  yet  his  hands  were 
trembling,  his  feet  were  cold,  and  he  was  filled  with 
dread  at  the  thought  that  soon  Ivan  Dmitritch  would 
get  up  and  see  that  he  was  in  a  dressing-gown.  He 
got  up  and  walked  across  the  room  and  sat  down 
again. 

Here  he  had  been  sitting  already  half  an  hour,  an 
hour,  and  he  was  miserably  sick  of  it:  was  it  really 
possible  to  live  here  a  day,  a  week,  and  even  years 


102  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

like  these  people?  Why,  he  had  been  sitting  here, 
had  walked  about  and  sat  down  again;  he  could 
get  up  and  look  out  of  window  and  walk  from 
corner  to  corner  again,  and  then  what?  Sit  so  all 
the  time,  like  a  post,  and  think?  No,  that  was 
scarcely  possible. 

Andrey  Yefimitch  lay  down,  but  at  once  got  up, 
wiped  the  cold  sweat  from  his  brow  with  his  sleeve, 
and  felt  that  his  whole  face  smelt  of  smoked  fish. 
He  walked  about  again. 

"  It's  some  misunderstanding  .  .  ."  he  said,  turn- 
ing out  the  palms  of  his  hands  in  perplexity.  "  It 
must  be  cleared  up.  There  is  a  misunderstand- 
ing.   ..." 

Meanwhile  Ivan  Dmitritch  woke  up;  he  sat  up 
and  propped  his  cheeks  on  his  fists.  He  spat.  Then 
he  glanced  lazily  at  the  doctor,  and  apparently  for 
the  first  minute  did  not  understand;  but  soon  his 
sleepy  face  grew  malicious  and  mocking. 

"  Aha !  so  they  have  put  you  in  here,  too,  old 
fellow?  "  he  said  in  a  voice  husky  from  sleepiness, 
screwing  up  one  eye.  "  Very  glad  to  see  you.  You 
sucked  the  blood  of  others,  and  now  they  will  suck 
yours.     Excellent !  " 

"  It's  a  misunderstanding  .  .  ."  Andrey  Yefi- 
mitch brought  out,  frightened  by  Ivan  Dmitritch's 
words;  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  repeated: 
11  It's  some  misunderstanding.   .   .   ." 

Ivan  Dmitritch  spat  again  and  lay  down. 

11  Cursed  life,"  he  grumbled,  "  and  what's  bitter 
and  insulting,  this  life  will  not  end  in  compensation 
for  our  sufferings,  it  will  not  end  with  apotheosis 
as  it  would  in  an  opera,  but  with  death;  peasants 


Ward  No.  6  103 

will  come  and  drag  one's  dead  body  by  the  arms 
and  the  legs  to  the  cellar.  Ugh !  Well,  it  does  not 
matter.  .  .  .  We  shall  have  our  good  time  in  the 
other  world.  ...  I  shall  come  here  as  a  ghost  from 
the  other  world  and  frighten  these  reptiles.  I'll 
turn  their  hair  grey." 

Moiseika  returned,  and,  seeing  the  doctor,  held 
out  his  hand. 

"  Give  me  one  little  kopeck,"  he  said. 

XVIII 

Andrey  Yefimitch  walked  away  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  into  the  open  country.  It  was 
getting  dark,  and  on  the  horizon  to  the  right  a  cold 
crimson  moon  was  mounting  upwards.  Not  far 
from  the  hospital  fence,  not  much  more  than  two 
hundred  yards  away,  stood  a  tall  white  house  shut 
in  by  a  stone  wall.    This  was  the  prison. 

"  So  this  is  real  life,"  thought  Andrey  Yefimitch, 
and  he  felt  frightened. 

The  moon  and  the  prison,  and  the  nails  on  the 
fence,  and  the  far-away  flames  at  the  bone-charring 
factory  were  all  terrible.  Behind  him  there  was 
the  sound  of  a  sigh.  Andrey  Yefimitch  looked 
round  and  saw  a  man  with  glittering  stars  and 
orders  on  his  breast,  who  was  smiling  and  slily  wink- 
ing.   And  this,  too,  seemed  terrible. 

Andrey  Yefimitch  assured  himself  that  there  was 
nothing  special  about  the  moon  or  the  prison,  that 
even  sane  persons  wear  orders,  and  that  everything 
in  time  will  decay  and  turn  to  earth,  but  he  was 
suddenly  overcome  with  despair;  he  clutched  at  the 


104  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

grating  with  both  hands  and  shook  it  with  all  his 
might.     The  strong  grating  did  not  yield. 

Then  that  it  might  not  be  so  dreadful  he  went 
to  Ivan  Dmitritch's  bed  and  sat  down. 

"  I  have  lost  heart,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  muttered, 
trembling  and  wiping  away  the  cold  sweat,  "  I  have 
lost  heart." 

"  You  should  be  philosophical,"  said  Ivan 
Dmitritch  ironically. 

"  My  God,  my  God.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  You 
were  pleased  to  say  once  that  there  was  no  philos- 
ophy in  Russia,  but  that  all  people,  even  the 
paltriest,  talk  philosophy.  But  you  know  the 
philosophizing  of  the  paltriest  does  not  harm  any- 
one," said  Andrey  Yefimitch  in  a  tone  as  if  he 
wanted  to  cry  and  complain.  "  Why,  then,  that 
malignant  laugh,  my  friend,  and  how  can  these  paltry 
creatures  help  philosophizing  if  they  are  not  satis- 
fied? For  an  intelligent,  educated  man,  made  in 
God's  image,  proud  and  loving  freedom,  to  have 
no  alternative  but  to  be  a  doctor  in  a  filthy,  stupid, 
wretched  little  town,  and  to  spend  his  whole  life 
among  bottles,  leeches,  mustard  plasters !  Quackery, 
narrowness,  vulgarity!     Oh,  my  God!  " 

"  You  are  talking  nonsense.  If  you  don't  like 
being  a  doctor  you  should  have  gone  in  for  being  a 
statesman." 

"  I  could  not,  I  could  not  do  anything.  We  are 
weak,  my  dear  friend.  ...  I  used  to  be  indifferent. 
I  reasoned  boldly  and  soundly,  but  at  the  first  coarse 
touch  of  life  upon  me  I  have  lost  heart.  .  .  .  Pros- 
tration. .  .  .  We  are  weak,  we  are  poor  creatures 
.  .  .  and  you,  too,  my  dear  friend,  you  are  intelli- 


Ward  No.  6  105 

gent,  generous,  you  drew  in  good  impulses  with 
your  mother's  milk,  but  you  had  hardly  entered  upon 
life  when  you  were  exhausted  and  fell  ill.  .  .  . 
Weak,  weak!  " 

Andrey  Yefimitch  was  all  the  while  at  the  ap- 
proach of  evening  tormented  by  another  persistent 
sensation  besides  terror  and  the  feeling  of  resent- 
ment. At  last  he  realized  that  he  was  longing  for  a 
smoke  and  for  beer. 

"  I  am  going  out,  my  friend,"  he  said.  "  I  will 
tell  them  to  bring  a  light;  I  can't  put  up  with  this. 
...  I  am  not  equal  to  it.   .  .   ." 

Andrey  Yefimitch  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it, 
but  at  once  Nikita  jumped  up  and  barred  his  way. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  You  can't,  you  can't!  " 
he  said.     "  It's  bedtime." 

"  But  I'm  only  going  out  for  a  minute  to  walk 
about  the  yard,"  said  Andrey  Yefimitch. 

"  You  can't,  you  can't;  it's  forbidden.  You  know 
that  yourself." 

"  But  what  difference  will  it  make  to  anyone  if  I 
do  go  out?  "  asked  Andrey  Yefimitch,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "  I  don't  understand.  Nikita,  I  must 
go  out !  "  he  said  in  a  trembling  voice.    "  I  must." 

"  Don't  be  disorderly,  it's  not  right,"  Nikita  said 
peremptorily. 

"  This  is  beyond  everything,"  Ivan  Dmitritch 
cried  suddenly,  and  he  jumped  up.  "  What  right  has 
he  not  to  let  you  out  ?  How  dare  they  keep  us  here  ? 
I  believe  it  is  clearly  laid  down  in  the  law  that  no 
one  can  be  deprived  of  freedom  without  trial !  It's 
an  outrage  !     It's  tyranny !  " 

"  Of  course  it's  tyranny,"  said  Andrey  Yefimitch, 


106  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

encouraged  by  Ivan  Dmitritch's  outburst.  "  I  must 
go  out,  I  want  to.  He  has  no  right!  Open,  I  tell 
you." 

"  Do  you  hear,  you  dull-witted  brute?"  cried  Ivan 
Dmitritch,  and  he  banged  on  the  door  with  his  fist. 
"Open  the  door,  or  I  will  break  it  open! 
Torturer!  " 

"  Open  the  door,"  cried  Andrey  Yefimitch,  trem- 
bling all  over;  "  I  insist!  " 

"Talk  away!"  Nikita  answered  through  the 
door,  "  talk  away.  .  .  ." 

"  Anyhow,  go  and  call  Yevgeny  Fyodoritch !  Say 
that  I  beg  him  to  come  for  a  minute !  " 

"  His  honour  will  come  of  himself  to-morrow." 

"  They  will  never  let  us  out,"  Ivan  Dmitritch  was 
going  on  meanwhile.  "  They  will  leave  us  to  rot 
here !  Oh,  Lord,  can  there  really  be  no  hell  in  the 
next  world,  and  will  these  wretches  be  forgiven? 
Where  is  justice?  Open  the  door,  you  wretch!  I 
am  choking!  "  he  cried  in  a  hoarse  voice,  and  flung 
himself  upon  the  door.  "  I'll  dash  out  my  brains, 
murderers!  " 

Nikita  opened  the  door  quickly,  and  roughly  with 
both  his  hands  and  his  knee  shoved  Andrey  Yefi- 
mitch back,  then  swung  his  arm  and  punched  him 
in  the  face  with  his  fist.  It  seemed  to  Andrey 
Yefimitch  as  though  a  huge  salt  wave  enveloped  him 
from  his  head  downwards  and  dragged  him  to  the 
bed;  there  really  was  a  salt  taste  in  his  mouth:  most 
likely  the  blood  was  running  from  his  teeth.  He 
waved  his  arms  as  though  he  were  trying  to  swim  out 
and  clutched  at  a  bedstead,  and  at  the  same  moment 
felt  Nikita  hit  him  twice  on  the  back. 


Ward  No.  6  107 

Ivan  Dmitritch  gave  a  loud  scream.  He  must 
have  been  beaten  too. 

Then  all  was  still,  the  faint  moonlight  came 
through  the  grating,  and  a  shadow  like  a  net  lay 
on  the  floor.  It  was  terrible.  Andrey  Yefimitch 
lay  and  held  his  breath:  he  was  expecting  with 
horror  to  be  struck  again.  He  felt  as  though  some- 
one had  taken  a  sickle,  thrust  it  into  him,  and  turned 
it  round  several  times  in  his  breast  and  bowels.  He 
bit  the  pillow  from  pain  and  clenched  his  teeth,  and 
all  at  once  through  the  chaos  in  his  brain  there 
flashed  the  terrible  unbearable  thought  that  these 
people,  who  seemed  now  like  black  shadows  in  the 
moonlight,  had  to  endure  such  pain  day  by  day  for 
years.  How  could  it  have  happened  that  for  more 
than  twenty  years  he  had  not  known  it  and  had  re- 
fused to  know  it?  He  knew  nothing  of  pain,  had 
no  conception  of  it,  so'  he  was  not  to  blame,  but  his 
conscience,  as  inexorable  and  as  rough  as  Nikita, 
made  him  turn  cold  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to 
his  heels.  He  leaped  up,  tried  to  cry  out  with  all 
his  might,  and  to  run  in  haste  to  kill  Nikita,  and 
then  Hobotov,  the  superintendent  and  the  assistant, 
and  then  himself;  but  no  sound  came  from  his  chest, 
and  his  legs  would  not  obey  him.  Gasping  for 
breath,  he  tore  at  the  dressing-gown  and  the  shirt 
on  his  breast,  rent  them,  and  fell  senseless  on  the 
bed. 

XIX 

Next  morning  his  head  ached,  there  was  a  droning 
in  his  ears  and  a  feeling  of  utter  weakness  all  over. 


108  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

He  was  not  ashamed  at  recalling  his  weakness  the 
day  before.  He  had  been  cowardly,  had  even  been 
afraid  of  the  moon,  had  openly  expressed  thoughts 
and  feelings  such  as  he  had  not  expected  in  himself 
before;  for  instance,  the  thought  that  the  paltry 
people  who  philosophized  were  really  dissatisfied. 
But  now  nothing  mattered  to  him. 

He  ate  nothing,  he  drank  nothing.  He  lay  mo- 
tionless and  silent. 

"It  is  all  the  same  to  me,"  he  thought  when  they 
asked  him  questions.  "I  am  not  going  to  answer. 
.  .  .  It's  all  the  same  to  me." 

After  dinner  Mihail  Averyanitch  brought  him  a 
quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea  and  a  pound  of  fruit 
pastilles.  Daryushka  came  too  and  stood  for  a 
whole  hour  by  the  bed  with  an  expression  of  dull 
grief  on  her  face.  Dr,  Hobotov  visited  him.  He 
brought  a  bottle  of  bromide  and  told  Nikita  to 
fumigate  the  ward  with  something. 

Towards  evening  Andrey  Yefimitch  died  of  an 
apoplectic  stroke.  At  first  he  had  a  violent  shiver- 
ing fit  and  a  feeling  of  sickness;  something  revolting 
as  it  seemed,  penetrating  through  his  whole  body, 
even  to  his  finger-tips,  strained  from  his  stomach  to 
his  head  and  flooded  his  eyes  and  ears.  There  was 
a  greenness  before  his  eyes.  Andrey  Yefimitch 
understood  that  his  end  had  come,  and  remembered 
that  Ivan  Dmitritch,  Mihail  Averyanitch,  and  mil- 
lions of  people  believed  in  immortality.  And  what 
if  it  really  existed?  But  he  did  not  want  immortal- 
ity, and  he  thought  of  it  only  for  one  instant.  A 
herd  of  deer,  extraordinarily  beautiful  and  graceful, 
of  which  he  had  been  reading  the  day  before,  ran  by 


Ward  No.  6  109 

him;  then  a  peasant  woman  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  him  with  a  registered  letter.  .  .  .  Mihail  Averya- 
nitch  said  something,  then  it  all  vanished,  and 
Andrey  Yefimitch  sank  into  oblivion  for  ever. 

The  hospital  porters  came,  took  him  by  his  arms 
and  his  legs,  and  carried  him  away  to  the  chapel. 

There  he  lay  on  the  table,  with  open  eyes,  and 
the  moon  shed  its  light  upon  him  at  night.  In  the 
morning  Sergey  Sergeyitch  came,  prayed  piously 
before  the  crucifix,  and  closed  his  former  chief's 
eyes. 

Next  day  Andrey  Yefimitch  was  buried.  Mihail 
Averyanitch  and  Daryushka  were  the  only  people 
at  the  funeral. 


THE  PETCHENYEG 


THE  PETCHENYEG 

Ivan  Abramitch  Zhmuhin,  a  retired  Cossack 
officer,  who  had  once  served  in  the  Caucasus,  but 
now  lived  on  his  own  farm,  and  who  had  once  been 
young,  strong,  and  vigorous,  but  now  was  old,  dried 
up,  and  bent,  with  shaggy  eyebrows  and  a  greenish- 
grey  moustache,  was  returning  from  the  town  to  his 
farm  one  hot  summer's  day.  In  the  town  he  had  con- 
fessed and  received  absolution,  and  had  made  his 
will  at  the  notary's  (a  fortnight  before  he  had  had 
a  slight  stroke),  and  now  all  the  while  he  was  in  the 
railway  carriage  he  was  haunted  by  melancholy, 
serious  thoughts  of  approaching  death,  of  the  vanity 
of  vanities,  of  the  transitoriness  of  all  things  earthly. 
At  the  station  of  Provalye — there  is  such  a  one  on 
the  Donetz  line — a  fair-haired,  plump,  middle-aged 
gentleman  with  a  shabby  portfolio  stepped  into  the 
carriage  and  sat  down  opposite.  They  got  into 
conversation. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ivan  Abramitch,  looking  pensively 
out  of  window,  "  it  is  never  too  late  to  marry.  I 
myself  married  when  I  was  forty-eight;  I  was  told  it 
was  late,  but  it  has  turned  out  that  it  was  not  late  or 
early,  but  simply  that  it  would  have  been  better  not 
to  marry  at  all.  Everyone  is  soon  tired  of  his  wife, 
but  not  everyone  tells  the  truth,  because,  you  know, 
people  are  ashamed  of  an  unhappy  home  life  and 
conceal  it.     It's  *  Manya  this  '  and  '  Manya  that ' 

113 


1 14  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

with  many  a  man  by  his  wife's  side,  but  if  he  had  his 
way  he'd  put  that  Manya  in  a  sack  and  drop  her  in 
the  water.  It's  dull  with  one's  wife,  it's  mere  fool- 
ishness. And  it's  no  better  with  one's  children,  I 
make  bold  to  assure  you.  I  have  two  of  them,  the 
rascals.  There's  nowhere  for  them  to  be  taught  out 
here  in  the  steppe;  I  haven't  the  money  to  send  them 
to  school  in  Novo  Tcherkask,  and  they  live  here 
like  young  wolves.  Next  thing  they  will  be  murder- 
ing someone  on  the  highroad." 

The  fair-haired  gentleman  listened  attentively, 
answered  questions  briefly  in  a  low  voice,  and  was 
apparently  a  gentleman  of  gentle  and  modest  dis- 
position. He  mentioned  that  he  was  a  lawyer,  and 
that  he  was  going  to  the  village  Dyuevka  on  business. 

"  Why,  merciful  heavens,  that  is  six  miles  from 
me !"  said  Zhmuhin  in  a  tone  of  voice  as  though 
someone  were  disputing  wTith  him.  "But  excuse  me, 
you  won't  find  horses  at  the  station  now.  To  my 
mind,  the  very  best  thing  you  can  do,  you  know,  is  to 
come  straight  to  me,  stay  the  night,  you  know,  and 
in  the  morning  drive  over  with  my  horses." 

The  lawyer  thought  a  moment  and  accepted  the 
invitation. 

When  they  reached  the  station  the  sun  was  al- 
ready low  over  the  steppe.  They  said  nothing  all 
the  way  from  the  station  to  the  farm:  the  jolting 
prevented  conversation.  The  trap  bounded  up  and 
down,  squeaked,  and  seemed  to  be  sobbing,  and  the 
lawyer,  who  was  sitting  very  uncomfortably,  stared 
before  him,  miserably  hoping  to  see  the  farm.  After 
they  had  driven  five  or  six  miles  there  came  into  view 
in  the  distance  a  low-pitched  house  and  a  yard  en- 


The  Petchenyeg  115 

closed  by  a  fence  made  of  dark,  flat  stones  stand- 
ing on  end;  the  roof  was  green,  the  stucco  was 
peeling  off,  and  the  windows  were  little  narrow  slits 
like  screwed-up  eyes.  The  farm  stood  in  the  full 
sunshine,  and  there  was  no  sign  either  of  water  or 
trees  anywhere  round.  Among  the  neighbouring 
landowners  and  the  peasants  it  was  known  as  the 
Petchenyegs'  farm.  Many  years  before,  a  land  sur- 
veyor, who  was  passing  through  the  neighbourhood 
and  put  up  at  the  farm,  spent  the  whole  night  talking 
to  Ivan  Abramitch,  was  not  favourably  impressed, 
and  as  he  was  driving  away  in  the  morning  said  to 
him  grimly: 

"  You  are  a  Petchenyeg,*  my  good  sir!" 
From  this  came  the  nickname,  the  Petchenyegs' 
farm,  which  stuck  to  the  place  even  more  when 
Zhmuhin's  boys  grew  up  and  began  to  make  raids 
on  the  orchards  and  kitchen-gardens.  Ivan  Abra- 
mitch was  called  "  You  Know,"  as  he  usually  talked 
a  very  great  deal  and  frequently  made  use  of  that 
expression. 

In  the  yard  near  a  barn  Zhmuhin's  sons  were 
standing,  one  a  young  man  of  nineteen,  the  other 
a  younger  lad,  both  barefoot  and  bareheaded.  Just 
at  the  moment  when  the  trap  drove  into  the  yard 
the  younger  one  flung  high  up  a  hen  which,  cackling, 
described  an  arc  in  the  air;  the  elder  shot  at  it  with 
a  gun  and  the  hen  fell  dead  on  the  earth. 

'  Those  are  my  boys  learning  to  shoot  birds  fly- 
ing," said  Zhmuhin. 

*The  Petchenyegs  were  a  tribe  of  wild  Mongolian  nomads 
who  made  frequent  inroads  upon  the  Russians  in  the  tenth  and 
eleventh  centuries. — Translator's  Note. 


n6  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

In  the  entry  the  travellers  were  met  by  a  little 
thin  woman  with  a  pale  face,  still  young  and  beau- 
tiful'; from  her  dress  she  might  have  been  taken  for 
a  servant. 

11  And  this,  allow  me  to  introduce  her,"  said 
Zhmuhin,  "is  the  mother  of  my  young  cubs.  Come, 
Lyubov  Osipovna,"  he  said,  addressing  her,  "  you 
must  be  spry,  mother,  and  get  something  for  our 
guest.     Let  us  have  supper.     Look  sharp!" 

The  house  consisted  of  two  parts:  in  one  was  the 
parlour  and  beside  it  old  Zhmuhin's  bedroom,  both 
stuffy  rooms  with  low  ceilings  and  multitudes  of  flies 
and  wasps,  and  in  the  other  was  the  kitchen  in  which 
the  cooking  and  washing  was  done  and  the  labourers 
had  their  meals;  here  geese  and  turkey-hens  were 
sitting  on  their  eggs  under  the  benches,  and  here 
were  the  beds  of  Lyubov  Osipovna  and  her  two 
sons.  The  furniture  in  the  parlour  was  unpainted 
and  evidently  roughly  made  by  a  carpenter;  guns, 
game-bags,  and  whips  were  hanging  on  the  walls, 
and  all  this  old  rubbish  was  covered  with  the  rust  of 
years  and  looked  grey  with  dust.  There  was  not 
one  picture;  in  the  corner  was  a  dingy  board  which 
had  at  one  time  been  an  ikon. 

A  young  Little  Russian  woman  laid  the  table  and 
handed  ham,  then  beetroot  soup.  The  visitor  re- 
fused vodka  and  ate  only  bread  and  cucumbers. 

"  How  about  ham?  "  asked  Zhmuhin. 

"  Thank  you,  I  don't  eat  it,"  answered  the  visitor, 
"  I  don't  eat  meat  at  all." 

"Why  is  that?" 

"  I  am  a  vegetarian.  Killing  animals  is  against 
my  principles." 


The  Petchenyeg  117 

Zhmuhin  thought  a  minute  and  then  said  slowly 
with  a  sigh : 

"  Yes  ...  to  be  sure.  ...  I  saw  a  man  who 
did  not  eat  meat  in  town,  too.  It's  a  new  religion 
they've  got  now.  Well,  it's  good.  We  can't  go  on 
always  shooting  and  slaughtering,  you  know;  we 
must  give  it  up  some  day  and  leave  even  the  beasts 
in  peace.  It's  a  sin  to  kill,  it's  a  sin,  there  is  no 
denying  it.  Sometimes  one  kills  a  hare  and  wounds 
him  in  the  leg,  and  he  cries  like  a  child.  ...  So  it 
must  hurt  him!  "  .   . 

"  Of  course  it  hurts  him;  animals  suffer  just  like 
human  beings." 

"  That's  true,"  Zhmuhin  assented.  *'  I  under- 
stand that  very  well,"  he  went  on,  musing,  "  only 
there  is  this  one  thing  I  don't  understand:  suppose, 
you  know,  everyone  gave  up  eating  meat,  what  would 
become  of  the  domestic  animals — fowls  and  geese, 
for  instance?  " 

"  Fowls  and  geese  would  live  in  freedom  like  wild 
birds." 

"  Now  I  understand.  To  be  sure,  crows  and 
jackdaws  get  on  all  right  without  us.  Yes.  .  .  . 
Fowls  and  geese  and  hares  and  sheep,  all  will  live 
in  freedom,  rejoicing,  you  know,  and  praising  God; 
and  they  will  not  fear  us,  peace  and  concord  will 
come.  Only  there  is  one  thing,  you  know,  I  can't 
understand,"  Zhmuhin  went  on,  glancing  at  the  ham. 
"  How  will  it  be  with  the  pigs?  What  is  to  be  done 
with  them?" 

"  They  will  be  like  all  the  rest — that  is,  they  will 
live  in  freedom." 

"Ah!     Yes.     But  allow  me  to  say,  if  they  were 


n8  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

not  slaughtered  they  would  multiply,  you  know,  and 
then  good-bye  to  the  kitchen-gardens  and  the 
meadows.  Why,  a  pig,  if  you  let  it  free  and  don't 
look  after  it,  will  ruin  everything  in  a  day.  A  pig 
is  a  pig,   and  it  is  not  for  nothing  it  is  called  a 

pig \ 

They  finished  supper.  Zhmuhin  got  up  from  the 
table  and  for  a  long  while  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  talking  and  talking.  .  .  .  He  was  fond  of 
talking  of  something  important  or  serious  and  was 
fond  of  meditating,  and  in  his  old  age  he  had  a 
longing  to  reach  some  haven,  to  be  reassured,  that 
he  might  not  be  so  frightened  of  dying.  He  had  a 
longing  for  meekness,  spiritual  calm,  and  confidence 
in  himself,  such  as  this  guest  of  theirs  had,  who  had 
satisfied  his  hunger  on  cucumbers  and  bread,  and 
believed  that  doing  so  made  him  more  perfect;  he 
was  sitting  on  a  chest,  plump  and  healthy,  keeping 
silent  and  patiently  enduring  his  boredom,  and  in 
the  dusk  when  one  glanced  at  him  from  the  entry 
he  looked  like  a  big  round  stone  which  one  could  not 
move  from  its  place.  If  a  man  has  something  to  lay 
hold  of  in  life  he  is  all  right. 

Zhmuhin  went  through  the  entry  to  the  porch, 
and  then  he  could  be  heard  sighing  and  saying  re- 
flectively to  himself :  "Yes.  .  .  .  To  be  sure.  .  .-." 
By  now  it  was  dark,  and  here  and  there  stars  could 
be  seen  in  the  sky.  They  had  not  yet  lighted  up  in- 
doors. Someone  came  into  the  parlour  as  noiselessly 
as  a  shadow  and  stood  still  near  the  door.  It  was 
Lyubov  Osipovna,  Zhmuhin's  wife. 

"Are  you  from  the  town?"  she  asked  timidly, 
not  looking  at  her  visitor. 


The  Petchenyeg  119 

"  Yes,  I  live  in  the  town." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  something  in  the  learned  way, 
sir;  be  so  kind  as  to  advise  us.  We  ought  to  send 
in  a  petition." 

"To  whom?"  asked  the  visitor. 

"  We  have  two  sons,  kind  gentleman,  and  they 
ought  to  have  been  sent  to  school  long  ago,  but  we 
never  see  anyone  and  have  no  one  to  advise  us.  And 
I  know  nothing.  For  if  they  are  not  taught  they 
will  have  to  serve  in  the  army  as  common  Cossacks. 
It's  not  right,  sir!  They  can't  read  and  write,  they 
are  worse  than  peasants,  and  Ivan  Abramitch  him- 
self can't  stand  them  and  won't  let  them  indoors. 
But  they  are  not  to  blame.  The  younger  one,  at 
any  rate,  ought  to  be  sent  to  school,  it  is  such  a 
pity!  "  she  said  slowly,  and  there  was  a  quiver  in 
her  voice;  and  it  seemed  incredible  that  a  woman 
so  small  and  so  youthful  could  have  grown-up  chil- 
dren.    "  Oh,  it's  such  a  pity!  " 

"  You  don't  know  anything  about  it,  mother,  and 
it  is  not  your  affair,"  said  Zhmuhin,  appearing  in  the 
doorway.  "  Don't  pester  our  guest  with  your  wild 
talk.     Go  away,  mother!  " 

Lyubov  Osipovna  went  out,  and  in  the  entry  re- 
peated once  more  in  a  thin  little  voice:  "Oh,  it's 
such  a  pity!  " 

A  bed  was  made  up  for  the  visitor  on  the  sofa  in 
the  parlour,  and  that  it  might  not  be  dark  for  him 
they  lighted  the  lamp  before  the  ikon.  Zhmuhin 
went  to  bed  in  his  own  room.  And  as  he  lay  there 
he  thought  of  his  soul,  of  his  age,  of  his  recent 
stroke  which  had  so  frightened  him  and  made  him 
think  of  death.     He  was  fond  of  philosophizing 


120  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

when  he  was  in  quietness  by  himself,  and  then  he 
fancied  that  he  was  a  very  earnest,  deep  thinker, 
and  that  nothing  in  this  world  interested  him  but 
serious  questions.  And  now  he  kept  thinking  and 
he  longed  to  pitch  upon  some  one  significant  thought 
unlike  others,  which  would  be  a  guide  to  him  in 
life,  and  he  wanted  to  think  out  principles  of  some 
sort  for  himself  so  as  to  make  his  life  as  deep  and 
earnest  as  he  imagined  that  he  felt  himself  to  be.  It 
would  be  a  good  thing  for  an  old  man  like  him  to 
abstain  altogether  from  meat,  from  superfluities  of 
all  sorts.  The  time  when  men  give  up  killing  each 
other  and  animals  would  come  sooner  or  later,  it 
could  not  but  be  so,  and  he  imagined  that  time  to 
himself  and  clearly  pictured  himself  living  in  peace 
with  all  the  animals,  and  suddenly  he  thought  again 
of  the  pigs,  and  everything  was  in  a  tangle  in  his 
brain. 

"  It's  a  queer  business,  Lord  have  mercy  upon 
us,"  he  muttered,  sighing  heavily.  "  Are  you 
asleep?  "  he  asked. 

"  No." 

Zhmuhin  got  out  of  bed  and  stopped  in  the  door- 
way with  nothing  but  his  shirt  on,  displaying  to 
his  guest  his  sinewy  legs,  that  looked  as  dry  as 
sticks. 

"  Nowadays,  you  know,"  he  began,  "  all  sorts  of 
telegraphs,  telephones,  and  marvels  of  all  kinds,  in 
fact,  have  come  in,  but  people  are  no  better  than 
they  were.  They  say  that  in  our  day,  thirty  or 
forty  years  ago,  men  were  coarse  and  cruel;  but 
isn't  it  just  the  same  now?  We  certainly  did  not 
stand  on  ceremony  in  our  day.     I  remember  in  the 


The  Petchenyeg  121 

Caucasus  when  we  were  stationed  by  a  little  river 
with  nothing  to  do  for  four  whole  months — I  was 
an  under-officer  at  that  time — something  queer 
happened,  quite  in  the  style  of  a  novel.  Just  on  the 
banks  of  that  river,  you  know,  where  our  division 
was  encamped,  a  wretched  prince  whom  we  had 
killed  not  long  before  was  buried.  And  at  night, 
you  know,  the  princess  used  to  come  to  his  grave 
and  weep.  She  would  wail  and  wail,  and  moan  and 
moan,  and  make  us  so  depressed  we  couldn't  sleep, 
and  that's  the  fact.  We  couldn't  sleep  one  night, 
we  couldn't  sleep  a  second;  well,  we  got  sick  of  it. 
And  from  a  common-sense  point  of  view  you  really 
can't  go  without  your  sleep  for  the  devil  knows  what 
(excuse  the  expression).  We  took  that  princess  and 
gave  her  a  good  thrashing,  and  she  gave  up  coming. 
There's  an  instance  for  you.  Nowadays,  of  course, 
there  is  not  the  same  class  of  people,  and  they  are 
not  given  to  thrashing  and  they  live  in  cleaner  style, 
and  there  is  more  learning,  but,  you  know,  the  soul 
is  just  the  same :  there  is  no  change.  Now,  look 
here,  there's  a  landowner  living  here  among  us;  he 
has  mines,  you  know;  all  sorts  of  tramps  without 
passports  who  don't  know  where  to  go  work  for 
him.  On  Saturdays  he  has  to  settle  up  with  the 
workmen,  but  he  doesn't  care  to  pay  them,  you  know, 
he  grudges  the  money.  So  he's  got  hold  of  a  fore- 
man who  is  a  tramp  too,  though  he  does  wear  a  hat. 
1  Don't  you  pay  them  anything,'  he  says,  '  not  a 
kopeck;  they'll  beat  you,  and  let  them  beat  you,' 
says  he,  '  but  you  put  up  with  it,  and  I'll  pay  you 
ten  roubles  every  Saturday  for  it.'  So  on  the  Satur- 
day evening  the  workmen  come  to  settle  up  in  the 


122  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

usual  way;  the  foreman  says  to  them:  '  Nothing!  ' 
Well,  word  for  word,  as  the  master  said,  they  begin 
swearing  and  using  their  fists.  .  .  .  They  beat  him 
and  they  kick  him  .  .  .  you  know,  they  are  a  set  of 
men  brutalized  by  hunger — they  beat  him  till  he  is 
senseless,  and  then  they  go  each  on  his  way.  The 
master  gives  orders  for  cold  water  to  be  poured  on 
the  foreman,  then  flings  ten  roubles  in  his  face.  And 
he  takes  it  and  is  pleased  too,  for  indeed  he'd  be 
ready  to  be  hanged  for  three  roubles,  let  alone  ten. 
Yes  .  .  .  and  on  Monday  a  new  gang  of  workmen 
arrive;  they  work,  for  they  have  nowhere  to  go. 
.   .   .   On  Saturday  it  is  the  same  story  over  again." 

The  visitor  turned  over  on  the  other  side  with  his 
face  to  the  back  of  the  sofa  and  muttered  something. 

"  And  here's  another  instance,"  Zhmuhin  went 
on.  "  We  had  the  Siberian  plague  here,  you  know 
— the  cattle  die  off  like  flies,  I  can  tell  you — and  the 
veterinary  surgeons  came  here,  and  strict  orders 
were  given  that  the  dead  cattle  were  to  be  buried 
at  a  distance  deep  in  the  earth,  that  lime  was  to  be 
thrown  over  them,  and  so  on,  you  know,  on  scientific 
principles.  My  horse  died  too.  I  buried  it  with 
every  precaution,  and  threw  over  three  hundred- 
weight of  lime  over  it.  And  what  do  you  think? 
My  fine  fellows — my  precious  sons,  I  mean — dug  it 
up,  skinned  it,  and  sold  the  hide  for  three  roubles; 
there's  an  instance  for  you.  So  people  have  grown 
no  better,  and  however  you  feed  a  wolf  he  will  al- 
ways look  towards  the  forest;  there  it  is.  It  gives 
one  something  to  think  about,  eh?  How  do  you 
look  at  it?  " 

On  one  side  a  flash  of  lightning  gleamed  through 


The  Petchenyeg  123 

a  chink  in  the  window-blinds.  There  was  the  stifling 
feeling  of  a  storm  coming,  the  gnats  were  biting, 
and  Zhmuhin,  as  he  lay  in  his  bedroom  meditating, 
sighed  and  groaned  and  said  to  himself:     "  Yes,  to 

be  sure "  and  there  was  no  possibility  of  getting 

to  sleep.  Somewhere  far,  far  away  there  was  a 
growl  of  thunder. 

"  Are  you  asleep?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  visitor. 

Zhmuhin  got  up,  and  thudding  with  his  heels 
walked  through  the  parlour  and  the  entry  to  the 
kitchen  to  get  a  drink  of  water. 

"  The  worst  thing  in  the  world,  you  know,  is 
stupidity,"  he  said  a  little  later,  coming  back  with 
a  dipper.  "  My  Lyubov  Osipovna  is  on  her  knees 
saying  her  prayers.  She  prays  every  night,  you 
know,  and  bows  down  to  the  ground,  first  that  her 
children  may  be  sent  to  school;  she  is  afraid  her 
boys  will  go  into  the  army  as  simple  Cossacks,  and 
that  they  will  be  whacked  across  their  backs  with 
sabres.  But  for  teaching  one  must  have  money,  and 
where  is  one  to  get  it?  You  may  break  the  floor 
beating  your  head  against  it,  but  if  you  haven't  got 
it  you  haven't.  And  the  other  reason  she  prays  is 
because,  you  know,  every  woman  imagines  there  is 
no  one  in  the  world  as  unhappy  as  she  is.  I  am  a 
plain-spoken  man,  and  I  don't  want  to  conceal  any- 
thing from  you.  She  comes  of  a  poor  family,  a 
village  priest's  daughter.  I  married  her  when  she 
was  seventeen,  and  they  accepted  my  offer  chiefly 
because  they  hadn't  enough  to  eat;  it  was  nothing 
but  poverty  and  misery,  while  I  have  anyway  land, 
you  see — a  farm — and  after  all  I  am  an  officer;  it 


124  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

was  a  step  up  for  her  to  marry  me,  you  know.  On 
the  very  first  day  when  she  was  married  she  cried, 
and  she  has  been  crying  ever  since,  all  these  twenty 
years;  she  has  got  a  watery  eye.  And  she's  always 
sitting  and  thinking,  and  what  do  you  suppose  she  is 
thinking  about?  What  can  a  woman  think  about? 
Why,  nothing.  I  must  own  I  don't  consider  a 
woman  a  human  being." 

The  visitor  got  up  abruptly  and  sat  on  the  bed. 

"  Excuse  me,  I  feel  stifled,"  he  said;  "  I  will  go 
outside." 

Zhmuhin,  still  talking  about  women,  drew  the  bolt 
in  the  entry  and  they  both  went  out.  A  full  moon 
was  floating  in  the  sky  just  over  the  yard,  and  in  the 
moonlight  the  house  and  barn  looked  whiter  than 
by  day;  and  on  the  grass  brilliant  streaks  of  moon- 
light, white  too,  stretched  between  the  black 
shadows.  Far  away  on  the  right  could  be  seen  the 
steppe,  above  it  the  stars  were  softly  glowing — and 
it  was  all  mysterious,  infinitely  far  away,  as  though 
one  were  gazing  into  a  deep  abyss;  while  on  the  left 
heavy  storm-clouds,  black  as  soot,  were  piling  up 
one  upon  another  above  the  steppe;  their  edges  were 
lighted  up  by  the  moon,  and  it  looked  as  though 
there  were  mountains  there  with  white  snow  on  their 
peaks,  dark  forests,  the  sea.  There  was  a  flash  of 
lightning,  a  faint  rumble  of  thunder,  and  it  seemed 
as  though  a  battle  were  being  fought  in  the 
mountains.  :   .   . 

Quite  close  to  the  house  a  little  night-owl  screeched 
monotonously: 

"Asleep!  asleep!  " 


The  Petchenyeg  125 

"  What  time  is  it  now?  "  asked  the  visitor. 

"  Just  after  one." 

"  How  long  it  is  still  to  dawn !  " 

They  went  back  to  the  house  and  lay  down  again. 
It  was  time  to  sleep,  and  one  can  usually  sleep  so 
splendidly  before  rain;  but  the  old  man  had  a 
hankering  after  serious,  weighty  thoughts;  he 
wanted  not  simply  to  think  but  to  meditate,  and  he 
meditated  how  good  it  would  be,  as  death  was  near 
at  hand,  for  the  sake  of  his  soul  to  give  up  the 
idleness  which  so  imperceptibly  swallowed  up  day 
after  day,  year  after  year,  leaving  no  trace;  to  think 
out  for  himself  some  great  exploit — for  instance,  to 
walk  on  foot  far,  far  away,  or  to  give  up  meat  like 
this  young  man.  And  again  he  pictured  to  himself 
the  time  when  animals  would  not  be  killed,  pictured 
it  clearly  and  distinctly  as  though  he  were  living 
through  that  time  himself;  but  suddenly  it  was  all 
in  a  tangle  again  in  his  head  and  all  was  muddled. 

The  thunderstorm  had  passed  over,  but  from  the 
edges  of  the  storm-clouds  came  rain  softly  pattering 
on  the  roof.  Zhmuhin  got  up,  stretching  and  groan- 
ing with  old  age,  and  looked  into  the  parlour.  No- 
ticing that  his  visitor  was  not  asleep,  he  said: 

"  When  we  were  in  the  Caucasus,  you  know,  there 
was  a  colonel  there  who  was  a  vegetarian,  too;  he 
didn't  eat  meat,  never  went  shooting,  and  would  not 
let  his  servants  catch  fish.  Of  course,  I  understand 
that  every  animal  ought  to  live  in  freedom  and  enjoy 
its  life;  only  I  don't  understand  how  a  pig  can 
go  about  where  it  likes  without  being  looked 
after.  .  .  ." 

The  visitor  got  up  and  sat  down.     His  pale,  hag- 


126  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

gard  face  expressed  weariness  and  vexation;  it  was 
evident  that  he  was  exhausted,  and  only  his  gentle- 
ness and  the  delicacy  of  his  soul  prevented  him  from 
expressing  his  vexation  in  words. 

"  It's  getting  light,"  he  said  mildly.  "  Please 
have  the  horse  brought  round  for  me." 

"Why  so?  Wait  a  little  and  the  rain  will  be 
over." 

"  No,  I  entreat  you,"  said  the  visitor  in  horror, 
with  a  supplicating  voice;  "it  is  essential  for  me 
to  go  at  once." 

And  he  began  hurriedly  dressing. 

By  the  time  the  horse  was  harnessed  the  sun  was 
rising.  It  had  just  left  off  raining,  the  clouds  were 
racing  swiftly  by,  and  the  patches  of  blue- were  grow- 
ing bigger  and  bigger  in  the  sky.  The  first  rays  of 
the  sun  were  timidly  reflected  below  in  the  big 
puddles.  The  visitor  walked  through  the  entry 
with  his  portfolio  to  get  into  the  trap,  and  at  that 
moment  Zhmuhin's  wife,  pale,  and  it  seemed  paler 
than  the  day  before,  with  tear-stained  eyes,  looked 
at  him  intently  without  blinking,  with  the  naive 
expression  of  a  little  girl,  and  it  was  evident  from 
her  dejected  face  that  she  was  envying  him  his  free- 
dom— oh,  with  what  joy  she  would  have  gone  away 
from  there ! — and  she  wanted  to  say  something  to 
him,-  most  likely  to  ask  advice  about  her  children. 
And  what  a  pitiable  figure  she  was!  This  was  not 
a  wife,  not  the  head  of  a  house,  not  even  a  servant, 
but  more  like  a  dependent,  a  poor  relation  not 
wanted  by  anyone,  a  nonentity.  .  .  .  Her  husband, 
fussing  about,  talking  unceasingly,  was  seeing  his 
visitor  off,  continually  running  in  front  of  him,  while 


i 


The  Petchenyeg  127 

she  huddled  up  to  the  wall  with  a  timid,  guilty  air, 
waiting  for  a  convenient  minute  to  speak. 

"  Please  come  again  another  time,"  the  old  man 
kept  repeating  incessantly;  "what  we  have  we  are 
glad  to  offer,  you  know." 

The  visitor  hurriedly  got  into  the  trap,  evidently 
with  relief,  as  though  he  were  afraid  every  minute 
that  the/  would  detain  him.  The  trap  lurched 
about  as  it  had  the  day  before,  squeaked,  and  furi- 
ously rattled  the  pail  that  was  tied  on  at  the  back. 
He  glanced  round  at  Zhmuhin  with  a  peculiar  ex- 
pression; it  looked  as  though  he  wanted  to  call  him 
a  Petchenyeg,  as  the  surveyor  had  once  done,  or 
some  such  name,  but  his  gentleness  got  the  upper 
hand.  He  controlled  himself  and  said  nothing.  But 
in  the  gateway  he  suddenly  could  not  restrain  him- 
self; he  got  up  and  shouted  loudly  and  angrily: 
"  You  have  bored  me  to  death." 

And  he  disappeared  through  the  gate. 

Near  the  barn  Zhmuhin's  sons  were  standing;  the 
elder  held  a  gun,  while  the  younger  had  in  his  hands 
a  grey  cockerel  with  a  bright  red  comb.  The 
younger  flung  up  the  cockerel  with  all  his  might; 
the  bird  flew  upwards  higher  than  the  house  and 
turned  over  in  the  air  like  a  pigeon.  The  elder  boy 
fired  and  the  cockerel  fell  like  a  stone. 

The  old  man,  overcome  with  confusion,  not  know- 
ing how  to  explain  the  visitor's  strange,  unexpected 
shout,  went  slowly  back  into  the  house.  And  sitting 
down  at  the  table  he  spent  a  long  while  meditating 
on  the  intellectual  tendencies  of  the  day,  on  the  uni- 
versal immorality,  on  the  telegraph,  on  the  tele- 


128  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

phone,  on  velocipedes,  on  how  unnecessary  It  all 
was;  little  by  little  he  regained  his  composure,  then 
slowly  had  a  meal,  drank  five  glasses  of  tea,  and  lay 
down  for  a  nap. 


A  DEAD  BODY 


A  DEAD  BODY 

A  STILL  August  night.  A  mist  is  rising  slowly  from 
the  fields  and  casting  an  opaque  veil  over  everything 
within  eyesight.  Lighted  up  by  the  moon,  the  mist 
gives  the  impression  at  one  moment  of  a  calm, 
boundless  sea,  at  the  next  of  an  immense  white  wall. 
The  air  is  damp  and  chilly.  Morning  is  still  far  off. 
A  step  from  the  bye-road  which  runs  along  the  edge 
of  the  forest  a  little  fire  is  gleaming.  A  dead  body, 
covered  from  head  to  foot  with  new  white  linen,  is 
lying  under  a  young  oak-tree.  A  wooden  ikon  is 
lying  on  its  breast.  Beside  the  corpse  almost  on  the 
road  sits  the  "  watch  " — two  peasants  performing 
one  of  the  most  disagreeable  and  uninviting  of  peas- 
ants' duties.  One,  a  tall  young  fellow  with  a  scarcely 
perceptible  moustache  and  thick  black  eyebrows,  in 
a  tattered  sheepskin  and  bark  shoes,  is  sitting  on  the 
wet  grass,  his  feet  stuck  out  straight  in  front  of  him, 
and  is  trying  to  while  away  the  time  with  work.  He 
bends  his  long  neck,  and  breathing  loudly  through 
his  nose,  makes  a  spoon  out  of  a  big  crooked  bit  of 
wood;  the  other — a  little  scraggy,  pock-marked 
peasant  with  an  aged  face,  a  scanty  moustache,  and 
a  little  goat's  beard — sits  with  his  hands  dangling 
loose  on  his  knees,  and  without  moving  gazes  list- 
lessly at  the  light.  A  small  camp-fire  is  lazily  burn- 
ing down  between  them,  throwing  a  red  glow  on 
their  faces.     There  is  perfect  stillness.     The  only 

131 


132  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

sounds  are  the  scrape  of  the  knife  on  the  wood  and 
the  crackling  of  damp  sticks  in  the  fire. 

11  Don't  you  go  to  sleep,  Syoma  .  .  ."  says  the 
young  man. 

"I  ...  I  am  not  asleep  .  .  ."  stammers  the 
goat-beard. 

11  That's  all  right.  .  .  .  It  would  be  dreadful  to 
sit  here  alone,  one  would  be  frightened.  You  might 
tell  me  something,  Syoma." 

"  I  ...   I  can't.   .   .   ." 

"You  are  a  queer  fellow,  Syomushka!  Other 
people  will  laugh  and  tell  a  story  and  sing  a  song, 
but  you — there  is  no  making  you  out.  You  sit  like 
a  scarecrow  in  the  garden  and  roll  your  eyes  at  the 
fire.  You  can't  say  anything  properly  ,  .  .  when 
you  speak  you  seem  frightened.  I  dare  say  you  are 
fifty,  but  you  have  less  sense  than  a  child.  .  .  . 
Aren't  you  sorry  that  you  are  a  simpleton?  " 

"  I  am  sorry,"  the  goat-beard  answers  gloomily. 

"  And  we  are  sorry  to  see  your  foolishness,  you 
may  be  sure.  You  are  a  good-natured,  sober  peasant, 
and  the  only  trouble  is  that  you  have  no  sense  in 
your  head.  You  should  have  picked  up  some  sense 
for  yourself  if  the  Lord  has  afflicted  you  and  given 
you  no  understanding.  You  must  make  an  effort, 
Syoma.  .  .  .  You  should  listen  hard  when  anything 
good's  being  said,  note  it  well,  and  keep  thinking 
and  thinking.  ...  If  there  is  any  word  you  don't 
understand,  you  should  make  an  effort  and  think 
over  in  your  head  in  what  meaning  the  word  is  used. 
Do  you  see?  Make  an  effort!  If  you  don't  gain 
some  sense  for  yourself  you'll  be  a  simpleton  and  of 
no  account  at  all  to  your  dying  day." 


A  Dead  Body  133 

All  at  once  a  long  drawn-out,  moaning  sound  is 
heard  in  the  forest.  Something  rustles  in  the  leaves 
as  though  torn  from  the  very  top  of  the  tree  and 
falls  to  the  ground.  All  this  is  faintly  repeated  by 
the  echo.  The  young  man  shudders  and  looks  en- 
quiringly at  his  companion. 

"  It's  an  owl  at  the  little  birds,"  says  Syoma, 
gloomily. 

"  Why,  Syoma,  it's  time  for  the  birds  to  fly  to  the 
warm  countries!  " 

"  To  be  sure,  it  is  time." 

"  It  is  chilly  at  dawn  now.  It  is  co-old.  The 
crane  is  a  chilly  creature,  it  is  tender.  Such  cold  is 
death  to  it.  I  am  not  a  crane,  but  I  am  frozen.  .  .  . 
Put  some  more  wood  on !  " 

Syoma  gets  up  and  disappears  in  the  dark  under- 
growth. While  he  is  busy  among  the  bushes,  break- 
ing dry  twigs,  his  companion  puts  his  hand  over  his 
eyes  and  starts  at  every  sound.  Syoma  brings  an 
armful  of  wood  and  lays  it  on  the  fire.  The  flame 
irresolutely  licks  the  black  twigs  with  its  little 
tongues,  then  suddenly,  as  though  at  the  word  of 
command,  catches  them  and  throws  a  crimson  light 
on  the  faces,  the  road,  the  white  linen  with  its  prom- 
inences where  the  hands  and  feet  of  the  corpse  raise 
it,  the  ikon.  The  "  watch  "  is  silent.  The  young 
man  bends  his  neck  still  lower  and  sets  to  work  with 
still  more  nervous  haste.  The  goat-beard  sits 
motionless  as  before  and  keeps  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
fire.  .  .  . 

"  Ye  that  love  not  Zion  .  .  .  shall  be  put  to 
shame  by  the  Lord."  A  falsetto  voice  is  suddenly 
heard  singing  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  then  slow 


134  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

footsteps  are  audible,  and  the  dark  figure  of  a  man 
in  a  short  monkish  cassock,  and  a  broad-brimmed 
hat,  with  a  wallet  on  his  shoulders,  comes  into  sight 
on  the  road  in  the  crimson  firelight. 

"Thy  will  be  done,  O  Lord!  Holy  Mother!  " 
the  figure  says  in  a  husky  falsetto.  "  I  saw  the  fire 
in  the  outer  darkness  and  my  soul  leapt  for  joy. 
...  At  first  I  thought  it  was  men  grazing  a  drove 
of  horses,  then  I  thought  it  can't  be  that,  since  no 
horses  were  to  be  seen.  '  Aren't  they  thieves,'  I 
wondered,  '  aren't  they  robbers  lying  in  wait  for  a 
rich  Lazarus?  Aren't  they  the  gypsy  people  offer- 
ing sacrifices  to  idols?  And  my  soul  leapt  for  joy. 
'  Go,  Feodosy,  servant  of  God,'  I  said  to  myself, 
'  and  win  a  martyr's  crown !  '  And  I  flew  to  the  fire 
like  a  light-winged  moth.  Now  I  stand  before  you, 
and  from  your  outer  aspect  I  judge  of  your  souls: 
you  are  not  thieves  and  you  are  not  heathens.  Peace 
be  to  you  !  " 

"  Good-evening." 

"  Good  orthodox  people,  do  you  know  how  to 
reach  the  Makuhinsky  Brickyards  from  here?  " 

"  It's  close  here.  You  go  straight  along  the  road; 
when  you  have  gone  a  mile  and  a  half  there  will 
be  Ananova,  our  village.  From  the  village,  father, 
you  turn  to  the  right  by  the  river-bank,  and  so  you 
will  get  to  the  brickyards.  It's  two  miles  from 
Ananova." 

"  God  give  you  health.  And  why  are  you  sitting 
here?" 

"  We  are  sitting  here  watching.  You  see,  there  is 
a  dead  body.   .   .   ." 

"  What  ?  what  body  ?     Holy  Mother !" 


A  Dead  Body  135 

The  pilgrim  sees  the  white  linen  with  the  ikon 
on  it,  and  starts  so  violently  that  his  legs  give  a  little 
skip.  This  unexpected  sight  has  an  overpowering 
effect  upon  him.  He  huddles  together  and  stands 
as  though  rooted  to  the  spot,  with  wide-open  mouth 
and  staring  eyes.  For  three  minutes  he  is  silent  as 
though  he  could  not  believe  his  eyes,  then  begins 
muttering : 

"O  Lord!  Holy  Mother!  I  was  going  along 
not  meddling  with  anyone,  and  all  at  once  such  an 
affliction." 

"What  may  you  be?  "  enquires  the  young  man. 
"Of  the  clergy?" 

11  No  .  .  .  no.  ...  I  go  from  one  monastery 
to  another.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  Mi  .  .  .  Mihail 
Polikarpitch,  the  foreman  of  the  brickyard?  Well, 
I  am  his  nephew.  .  .  .  Thy  will  be  done,  O  Lord ! 
Why  are  you  here?  " 

"  We  are  watching  ...  we  are  told  to." 

"  Yes,  yes  .  .  ."  mutters  the  man  in  the  cassock, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  "  And  where  did 
the  deceased  come  from?  " 

"  He  was  a  stranger." 

11  Such  is  life !  But  I'll  ...  er  ...  be  getting 
on,  brothers.  ...  I  feel  flustered.  I  am  more 
afraid  of  the  dead  than  of  anything,  my  dear  souls! 
And  only  fancy !  while  this  man  was  alive  he  wasn't 
noticed,  while  now  when  he  is  dead  and  given  over 
to  corruption  we  tremble  before  him  as  before  some 
famous  general  or  a  bishop.  .  .  .  Such  is  life;  was 
he  murdered,  or  what?  " 

"The  Lord  knows!  Maybe  he  was  murdered, 
or  maybe  he  died  of  himself." 


136  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  Who  knows,  brothers?  Maybe 
his  soul  is  now  tasting  the  joys  of  Paradise." 

"  His  soul  is  still  hovering  here,  near  his  body," 
says  the  young  man.  "  It  does  not  depart  from  the 
body  for  three  days." 

"  H'm,  yes  !  .  .  .  How  chilly  the  nights  are  now ! 
It  sets  one's  teeth  chattering.  ...  So  then  I  am  to 
go  straight  on  and  on?  .   .   ." 

"  Till  you  get  to  the  village,  and  then  you  turn  to 
the  right  by  the  river-bank." 

"  By  the  river-bank.  .  .  .  To  be  sure.  .  .  .  Why 
am  I  standing  still?  I  must  go  on.  Farewell, 
brothers." 

The  man  in  the  cassock  takes  five  steps  along  the 
road  and  stops. 

"  I've  forgotten  to  put  a  kopeck  for  the  burying," 
he  says.  "  Good  orthodox  friends,  can  I  give  the 
money?  " 

"  You  ought  to  know  best,  you  go  the  round  of 
the  monasteries.  If  he  died  a  natural  death  it  would 
go  for  the  good  of  his  soul;  if  it's  a  suicide  it's  a 
sin." 

"  That's  true.  .  .  .  And  maybe  it  really  was  a 
suicide  !  So  I  had  better  keep  my  money.  Oh,  sins, 
sins !  Give  me  a  thousand  roubles  and  I  would  not 
consent  to  sit  here.   .   .   .   Farewell,  brothers." 

The  cassock  slowly  moves  away  and  stops  again. 

"  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  what  I  am  to  do,"  he 
mutters.  "  To  stay  here  by  the  fire  and  wait  till 
daybreak.  ...  I  am  frightened;  to  go  on  is  dread- 
ful, too.  The  dead  man  will  haunt  me  all  the  way 
in  the  darkness.  .  .  .  The  Lord  has  chastised  me 
indeed!     Over  three  hundred  miles  I  have  come  on 


A  Dead  Body  137 

foot  and  nothing  happened,  and  now  I  am  near 
home  and  there's  trouble.     I  can't  go  on.   .  .   ." 

"  It  is  dreadful,  that  is  true." 

11 1  am  not  afraid  of  wolves,  of  thieves,  or  of 
darkness,  but  I  am  afraid  of  the  dead.  I  am  afraid 
of  them,  and  that  is  all  about  it.  Good  orthodox 
brothers,  I  entreat  you  on  my  knees,  see  me  to  the 
village." 

"  We've  been  told  not  to  go  away  from  the  body." 

"No  one  will  see,  brothers.  Upon  my  soul,  no 
one  will  see  !  The  Lord  will  reward  you  a  hundred- 
fold! Old  man,  come  with  me,  I  beg!  Old  man! 
Why  are  you  silent?  " 

"  He  is  a  bit  simple,"  says  the  young  man. 

"You  come  with  me,  friend;  I  will  give  you  five 
kopecks." 

"  For  five  kopecks  I  might,"  says  the  young  man, 
scratching  his  head,  "  but  I  was  told  not  to.  If 
Syoma  here,  our  simpleton,  will  stay  alone,  I  will 
take  you.     Syoma,  will  you  stay  here  alone?  " 

"  I'll  stay,"  the  simpleton  consents. 

"  Well,  that's  all  right,  then.     Come  along!  " 

The  young  man  gets  up,  and  goes  with  the  cas- 
sock. A  minute  later  the  sound  of  their  steps  and 
their  talk  dies  away.  Syoma  shuts  his  eyes  and 
gently  dozes.  The  fire  begins  to  grow  dim,  and  a 
big  black  shadow  falls  on  the  dead  body. 


A  HAPPY  ENDING 


A  HAPPY  ENDING 

Lyubov  Grigoryevna,  a  substantial,  buxom  lady 
of  forty  who  undertook  matchmaking  and  many 
other  matters  of  which  it  is  usual  to  speak  only  in 
whispers,  had  come  to  see  Stytchkin,  the  head  guard, 
on  a  day  when  he  was  off  duty.  Stytchkin,  somewhat 
embarrassed,  but,  as  always,  grave,  practical,  and 
severe,  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  smoking 
a  cigar  and  saying: 

"  Very  pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance. 
Semyon  Ivanovitch  recommended  you  on  the  ground 
that  you  may  be  able  to  assist  me  in  a  delicate  and 
very  important  matter  affecting  the  happiness  of  my 
life.  I  have,  Lyubov  Grigoryevna,  reached  the  age 
of  fifty-two;  that  is  a  period  of  life  at  which  very 
many  have  already  grown-up  children.  My  position 
is  a  secure  one.  Though  my  fortune  is  not  large, 
yet  I  am  in  a  position  to  support  a  beloved  being 
and  children  at  my  side.  I  may  tell  you  between 
ourselves  that  apart  from  my  salary  I  have  also 
money  in  the  bank  which  my  manner  of  living  has 
enabled  me  to  save.  I  am  a  practical  and  sober 
man,  I  lead  a  sensible  and  consistent  life,  so  that 
I  may  hold  myself  up  as  an  example  to  many.  But 
one  thing  I  lack — a  domestic  hearth  of  my  own  and 
a  partner  in  life,  and  I  live  like  a  wandering  Magyar, 
moving  from  place  to  place  without  any  satisfaction. 
I  have  no  one  with  whom  to  take  counsel,  and  when 

141 


142  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

I  am  ill  no  one  to  give  me  water,  and  so  on.  Apart 
from  that,  Lyubov  Grigoryevna,  a  married  man  has 
always  more  weight  in  society  than  a  bachelor.  .  .  . 
I  am  a  man  of  the  educated  class,  with  money,  but 
if  you  look  at  me  from  a  point  of  view,  what  am  I? 
A  man  with  no  kith  and  kin,  no  better  than  some 
Polish  priest.  And  therefore  I  should  be  very  de- 
sirous to  be  united  in  the  bonds  of  Hymen — that  is, 
to  enter  into  matrimony  with  some  worthy  person." 

"  An  excellent  thing,"  said  the  matchmaker,  with 
a  sigh. 

"  I  am  a  solitary  man  and  in  this  town  I  know 
no  one.  Where  can  I  go,  and  to  whom  can  I  apply, 
since  all  the  people  here  are  strangers  to  me?  That 
is  why  Semyon  Ivanovitch  advised  me  to  address 
myself  to  a  person  who  is  a  specialist  in  this  line, 
and  makes  the  arrangement  of  the  happiness  of 
others  her  profession.  And  therefore  I  most  ear- 
nestly beg  you,  Lyubov  Grigoryevna,  to  assist  me 
in  ordering  my  future.  You  know  all  the  marriage- 
able young  ladies  in  the  town,  and  it  is  easy  for  you 
to  accommodate  me." 
1  can.  .  .  . 

"  A  glass  of  wine,  I  beg  you.  .  .  ." 

With  an  habitual  gesture  the  matchmaker  raised 
her  glass  to  her  mouth  and  tossed  it  off  without 
winking. 

"  I  can,"  she  repeated.  "  And  what  sort  of  bride 
would  you  like,  Nikolay  Nikolayitch?  " 

11  Should  I  like?    The  bride  fate  sends  me." 

"  Well,  of  course  it  depends  on  your  fate,  but 
everyone  has  his  own  taste,  you  know.  One  likes 
dark  ladies,  the  other  prefers  fair  ones." 


A  Happy  Ending  143 

"  You  see,  Lyubov  Grigoryevna,"  said  Stytchkin, 
sighing  sedately,  "  I  am  a  practical  man  and  a  man 
of  character;  for  me  beauty  and  external  appearance 
generally  take  a  secondary  place,  for,  as  you  know 
yourself,  beauty  is  neither  bowl  nor  platter,  and  a 
pretty  wife  involves  a  great  deal  of  anxiety.  The 
way  I  look  at  it  is,  what  matters  most  in  a  woman 
is  not  what  is  external,  but  what  lies  within — that  is, 
that  she  should  have  soul  and  all  the  qualities.  A 
glass  of  wine,  I  beg.  ...  Of  course,  it  would  be 
very  agreeable  that  one's  wife  should  be  rather 
plump,  but  for  mutual  happiness  it  is  not  of 
great  consequence ;  what  matters  is  the  mind.  Prop- 
erly speaking,  a  woman  does  not  need  mind  either, 
for  if  she  has  brains  she  will  have  too  high  an 
opinion  of  herself,  and  take  all  sorts  of  ideas  into 
her  head.  One  cannot  do  without  education  now- 
adays, of  course,  but  education  is  of  different  kinds. 
It  would  be  pleasing  for  one's  wife  to  know  French 
and  German,  to  speak  various  languages,  very  pleas- 
ing; but  what's  the  use  of  that  if  she  can't  sew  on 
one's  buttons,  perhaps?  I  am  a  man  of  the  educated 
class;  I  am  just  as  much  at  home,  I  may  say,  with 
Prince  Kanitelin  as  I  am  with  you  here  now.  But 
my  habits  are  simple,  and  I  want  a  girl  who  is  not 
too  much  a  fine  lady.  Above  all,  she  must  have 
respect  for  me  and  feel  that  I  have  made  her  happi- 
ness." 

"To  be  sure." 

"Well,  now  as  regards  the  essential.  ...  I  do 
not  want  a  wealthy  bride ;  I  would  never  condescend 
to  anything  so  low  as  to  marry  for  money.  I  desire 
not  to  be  kept  by  my  wife,  but  to  keep  her,  and  that 


144  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

she  may  be  sensible  of  it.  But  I  do  not  want  a  poor 
girl  either.  Though  I  am  a  man  of  means,  and  am 
marrying  not  from  mercenary  motives,  but  from 
love,  yet  I  cannot  take  a  poor  girl,  for,  as  you  know 
yourself,  prices  have  gone  up  so,  and  there  will  be 
children." 

"  One  might  find  one  with  a  dowry,"  said  the 
matchmaker. 

"  A  glass  of  wine,  I  beg.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  pause  of  five  minutes. 

The  matchmaker  heaved  a  sigh,  took  a  sidelong 
glance  at  the  guard,  and  asked: 

"Well,  now,  my  good  sir  .  .  .  do  you  want  any- 
thing in  the  bachelor  line?  I  have  some  fine  bar- 
gains. One  is  a  French  girl  and  one  is  a  Greek. 
Well  worth  the  money." 

The  guard  thought  a  moment  and  said: 

"  No,  I  thank  you.  In  view  of  your  favourable 
disposition,  allow  me  to  enquire  now  how  much  you 
ask  for  your  exertions  in  regard  to  a  bride?  " 

"  I  don't  ask  much.  Give  me  twenty-five  roubles 
and  the  stuff  for  a  dress,  as  is  usual,  and  I  will  say 
thank  you  .  .  .  but  for  the  dowry,  that's  a  different 
account." 

Stytchkin  folded  his  arms  over  his  chest  and  fell 
to  pondering  in  silence.  After  some  thought  he 
heaved  a  sigh  and  said: 

"  That's  dear.   .   .  ." 

"It's  not  at  all  dear,  Nikolay  Nikolayitch!  In 
old  days  when  there  were  lots  of  weddings  one  did 
do  it  cheaper,  but  nowadays  what  are  our  earnings? 
If  you  make  fifty  roubles  in  a  month  that  is  not  a 


A  Happy  Ending  145 

fast,  you  may  be  thankful.  It's  not  on  weddings  we 
make  our  money,  my  good  sir." 

Stytchkin  looked  at  the  matchmaker  in  amaze- 
ment and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  H'm !  ...  Do  you  call  fifty  roubles  little  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Of  course  it  is  little !  In  old  days  we  sometimes 
made  more  than  a  hundred." 

"  H'm !  I  should  never  have  thought  it  was  pos- 
sible to  earn  such  a  sum  by  these  jobs.  Fifty  roubles ! 
It  is  not  every  man  that  earns  as  much !  Pray  drink 
your  wine.  .  .  ." 

The  matchmaker  drained  her  glass  without  wink- 
ing. Stytchkin  looked  her  over  from  head  to  foot 
in  silence,  then  said: 

"  Fifty  roubles.  .  .  .  Why,  that  is  six  hundred 
roubles  a  year.  .  .  .  Please  take  some  more.  .  .  . 
With  such  dividends,  you  know,  Lyubov  Grigor- 
yevna,  you  would  have  no  difficulty  in  making  a 
match  for  yourself.  .   .  ." 

11  For  myself,"  laughed  the  matchmaker,  "  I  am 
an  old  woman." 

"  Not  at  all.  .  .  .  You  have  such  a  figure,  and 
your  face  is  plump  and  fair,  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

The  matchmaker  was  embarrassed.  Stytchkin  was 
also  embarrassed  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

11  You  are  still  very  attractive,"  said  he;  "  if  you 
met  with  a  practical,  steady,  careful  husband,  with 
his  salary  and  your  earnings  you  might  even  attract 
him  very  much,  and  you'd  get  on  very  well 
together.  .  .  ." 

"  Goodness  knows  what  you  are  saying,  Nikolay 
Nikolayitch." 


146  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Well,  I  meant  no  harm.   .  .   ." 

A  silence  followed.  Stytchkin  began  loudly  blow- 
ing his  nose,  while  the  matchmaker  turned  crimson, 
and  looking  bashfully  at  him,  asked: 

"  And  how  much  do  you  get,  Nikolay  Nikolay- 
itch?" 

"I?  Seventy-five  roubles,  besides  tips.  .  .  . 
Apart  from  that  we  make  something  out  of  candles 
and  hares." 

"  You  go  hunting,  then?  " 

"  No.  Passengers  who  travel  without  tickets  are 
called  hares  with  us." 

Another  minute  passed  in  silence.  Stytchkin  got 
up  and  walked  about  the  room  in  excitement. 

"  I  don't  want  a  young  wife,"  said  he.  "  I  am  a 
middle-aged  man,  and  I  want  someone  who  .  .  . 
as  it  might  be  like  you  .  .  .  staid  and  settled  .  .  . 
and  a  figure  something  like  yours.   .   .   ." 

"  Goodness  knows  what  you  are  saying  .  .  ." 
giggled  the  matchmaker,  hiding  her  crimson  face 
in  her  kerchief. 

"  There  is  no  need  to  be  long  thinking  about  it. 
You  are  after  my  own  heart,  and  you  suit  me  in  your 
qualities.  I  am  a  practical,  sober  man,  and  if  you 
like  me  .  .  .  what  could  be  better?  Allow  me  to 
make  you  a  proposal !  " 

The  matchmaker  dropped  a  tear,  laughed,  and, 
in  token  of  her  consent,  clinked  glasses  with 
Stytchkin. 

"  Well,"  said  the  happy  railway  guard,  "  now 
allow  me  to  explain  to  you  the  behaviour  and  manner 
of  life  I  desire  from  you.  ...  I  am  a  strict,  re- 
spectable, practical  man.     I  take  a  gentlemanly  view 


A  Happy  Ending  147 

of  eveiything.  And  I  desire  that  my  wife  should  be 
strict  also,  and  should  understand  that  to  her  I  am  a 
benefactor  and  the  foremost  person  in  the  world." 
He  sat  down,  and,  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  began 
expounding  to  his  bride-elect  his  views  on  domestic 
life  and  a  wife's  duties. 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS 

New  Year's  Eve.  Nellie,  the  daughter  of  a  land- 
owner and  general,  a  young  and  pretty  girl,  dream- 
ing day  and  night  of  being  married,  was  sitting  in 
her  room,  gazing  with  exhausted,  half-closed  eyes 
into  the  looking-glass.  She  was  pale,  tense,  and  as 
motionless  as  the  looking-glass. 

The  non-existent  but  apparent  vista  of  a  long, 
narrow  corridor  with  endless  rows  of  candles,  the 
reflection  of  her  face,  her  hands,  of  the  frame — all 
this  was  already  clouded  in  mist  and  merged  into 
a  boundless  grey  sea.  The  sea  was  undulating, 
gleaming  and  now  and  then  flaring  crimson.  .  .  . 

Looking  at  Nellie's  motionless  eyes  and  parted 
lips,  one  could  hardly  say  .whether  she  was  asleep 
or  awake,  but  nevertheless  she  was  seeing.  At  first 
she  saw  only  the  smile  and  soft,  charming  expression 
of  someone's  eyes,  then  against  the  shifting  grey 
background  there  gradually  appeared  the  outlines 
of  a  head,  a  face,  eyebrows,  beard.  It  was  he,  the 
destined  one,  the  object  of  long  dreams  and  hopes. 
The  destined  one  was  for  Nellie  everything,  the 
significance  of  life,  personal  happiness,  career,  fate. 
Outside  him,  as  on  the  grey  background  of  the 
looking-glass,  all  was  dark,  empty,  meaningless. 
And  so  it  was  not  strange  that,  seeing  before  her  a 
handsome,  gently  smiling  face,  she  was  conscious  of 
bliss,  of  an  unutterably  sweet  dream  that  could  not 

151 


152  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

be  expressed  in  speech  or  on  paper.  Then  she  heard 
his  voice,  saw  herself  living  under  the  same  roof 
with  him,  her  life  merged  into  his.  Months  and 
years  flew  by  against  the  grey  background.  And 
Nellie  saw  her  future  distinctly  in  all  its  details. 

Picture  followed  picture  against  the  grey  back- 
ground. Now  Nellie  saw  herself  one  winter  night 
knocking  at  the  door  of  Stepan  Lukitch,  the  district 
doctor.  The  old  dog  hoarsely  and  lazily  barked 
behind  the  gate.  The  doctor's  windows  were  in 
darkness.    All  was  silence. 

"  For  God's  sake,  for  God's  sake !  "  whispered 
Nellie. 

But  at  last  the  garden  gate  creaked  and  Nellie 
saw  the  doctor's  cook. 

"  Is  the  doctor  at  home?  " 

11  His  honour's  asleep,"  whispered  the  cook  into 
her  sleeve,  as  though  afraid  of  waking  her  master. 
"  He's  only  just  got  home  from  his  fever  patients, 
and  gave  orders  he  was  not  to  be  waked." 

But  Nellie  scarcely  heard  the  cook.  Thrusting 
her  aside,  she  rushed  headlong  into  the  doctor's 
house.  Running  through  some  dark  and  stuffy 
rooms,  upsetting  two  or  three  chairs,  she  at  last 
reached  the  doctor's  bedroom.  Stepan  Lukitch  was 
lying  on  his  bed,  dressed,  but  without  his  coat,  and 
with  pouting  lips  was  breathing  into  his  open  hand. 
A  little  night-light  glimmered  faintly  beside  him. 
Without  uttering  a  word  Nellie  sat  down  and  began 
to  cry.     She  wept  bitterly,  shaking  all  over. 

"  My  husband  is  ill !  "  she  sobbed  out.  Stepan 
Lukitch  was  silent.  He  slowly  sat  up,  propped  his 
head  on  his  hand,  and  looked  at  his  visitor  with  fixed, 


The  Looking-Glass  153 

sleepy  eyes.  "  My  husband  is  ill !  "  Nellie  continued, 
restraining  her  sobs.  "  For  mercy's  sake  come 
quickly.     Make  haste.   .   .  .   Make  haste!" 

"Eh?"  growled  the  doctor,  blowing  into  his 
hand. 

"  Come !  Come  this  very  minute !  Or  .  .  .  it's 
terrible  to  think!     For  mercy's  sake!  " 

And  pale,  exhausted  Nellie,  gasping  and  swallow- 
ing her  tears,  began  describing  to  the  doctor  her 
husband's  illness,  her  unutterable  terror.  Her  suf- 
ferings would  have  touched  the  heart  of  a  stone,  but 
the  doctor  looked  at  her,  blew  into  his  open  hand, 
and — not  a  movement. 

"  I'll  come  to-morrow !  "  he  muttered. 

11  That's  impossible  !  "  cried  Nellie.  "  I  know 
my  husband  has  typhus!  At  once  .  .  .  this  very 
minute  you  are  needed !  " 

"  I  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  have  only  just  come  in,"  mut- 
tered the  doctor.  "  For  the  last  three  days  I've 
been  away,  seeing  typhus  patients,  and  I'm  ex- 
hausted and  ill  myself.  ...  I  simply  can't !  Abso- 
lutely !    I've  caught  it  myself !    There !  " 

And  the  doctor  thrust  before  her  eyes  a  clinical 
thermometer. 

"  My  temperature  is  nearly  forty.  ...  I  abso- 
lutely can't.  I  can  scarcely  sit  up.  Excuse  me.  I'll 
lie  down.   .   .  ." 

The  doctor  lay  down. 

"  But  I  implore  you,  doctor,"  Nellie  moaned  in 
despair.  "  I  beseech  you !  Help  me,  for  mercy's 
sake  I  Make  a  great  effort  and  come !  I  will  repay 
you,  doctor !  " 


154  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Oh,  dear!  .  .  .  Why,  I  have  told  you  already. 
Ah!" 

Nellie  leapt  up  and  walked  nervously  up  and  down 
the  bedroom.  She  longed  to  explain  to  the  doctor, 
to  bring  him  to  reason.  .  .  .  She  thought  if  only  he 
knew  how  dear  her  husband  was  to  her  and  how 
unhappy  she  was,  he  would  forget  his  exhaustion  and 
his  illness.     But  how  could  she  be  eloquent  enough? 

"  Go  to  the  Zemstvo  doctor,"  she  heard  Stepan 
Lukitch's  voice. 

"  That's  impossible  !  He  lives  more  than  twenty 
miles  from  here,  and  time  is  precious.  And  the 
horses  can't  stand  it.  It  is  thirty  miles  from  us  to 
you,  and  as  much  from  here  to  the  Zemstvo  doctor. 
No,  it's  impossible !  Come  along,  Stepan  Lukitch. 
I  ask  of  you  an  heroic  deed.  Come,  perform  that 
heroic  deed!     Have  pity  on  us!  " 

"  It's  beyond  everything.  .  .  .  I'm  in  a  fever 
.  .  .  my  head's  in  a  whirl  .  .  .  and  she  won't 
understand !     Leave  me  alone !  " 

"  But  you  are  in  duty  bound  to  come  1  You  can- 
not refuse  to  come!  It's  egoism!  A  man  is  bound 
to  sacrifice  his  life  for  his  neighbour,  and  you  .  .  . 
you  refuse  to  come!  I  will  summon  you  before  the 
Court." 

Nellie  felt  that  she  was  uttering  a  false  and  un- 
deserved insult,  but  for  her  husband's  sake  she  was 
capable  of  forgetting  logic,  tact,  sympathy  for 
others.  ...  In  reply  to  her  threats,  the  doctor 
greedily  gulped  a  glass  of  cold  water.  Nellie  fell 
to  entreating  and  imploring  like  the  very  lowest 
beggar.  ...  At  last  the  doctor  gave  way.     He 


The  Looking-Glass  l£f 

slowly  got  up,  puffing  and  panting,  looking  for  his 
coat. 

"  Here  it  is!  "  cried  Nellie,  helping  him.  "  Let 
me  put  it  on  to  you.  Come  along !  I  will  repay  you. 
.   .  .  All  my  life  I  shall  be  grateful  to  you.  .   .   ." 

But  what  agony!  After  putting  on  his  coat  the 
doctor  lay  down  again.  Nellie  got  him  up  and 
dragged  him  to  the  hall.  Then  there  was  an 
agonizing  to-do  over  his  goloshes,  his  overcoat. 
.  .  .  His  cap  was  lost.  .  .  .  But  at  last  Nellie  was 
in  the  carriage  with  the  doctor.  Now  they  had  only 
to  drive  thirty  miles  and  her  husband  would  have  a 
doctor's  help.  The  earth  was  wrapped  in  darkness. 
One  could  not  see  one's  hand  before  one's  face.  .  .  . 
A  cold  winter  wind  was  blowing.  There  were  frozen 
lumps  under  their  wheels.  The  coachman  was 
continually  stopping  and  wondering  which  road  to 
take. 

Nellie  and  the  doctor  sat  silent  all  the  way.  It 
was  fearfully  jolting,  but  they  felt  neither  the  cold 
nor  the  jolts. 

"  Get  on,  get  on!  "  Nellie  implored  the  driver. 

At  five  in  the  morning  the  exhausted  horses  drove 
into  the  yard.  Nellie  saw  the  familiar  gates,  the 
well  with  the  crane,  the  long  row  of  stables  and 
barns.    At  last  she  was  at  home. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  I  will  be  back  directly,"  she 
said  to  Stepan  Lukitch,  making  him  sit  down  on  the 
sofa  in  the  dining-room.  "  Sit  still  and  wait  a  little, 
and  I'll  see  how  he  is  going  on." 

On  her  return  from  her  husband,  Nellie  found 
the  doctor  lying  down.  He  was  lying  on  the  sofa 
and  muttering. 


156  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"Doctor,  please!  .  .  .  doctor!" 

"  Eh?    Ask  Domna!  "  muttered  Stepan  Lukitch. 

"What?" 

"  They  said  at  the  meeting  .  .  .  Vlassov  said 
.  .   .  Who?  .  .  .  what?" 

And  to  her  horror  Nellie  saw  that  the  doctor  was 
as  delirious  as  her  husband.    What  was  to  be  done? 

"  I  must  go  for  the  Zemstvo  doctor,"  she  decided. 

Then  again  there  followed  darkness,  a  cutting 
cold  wind,  lumps  of  frozen  earth.  She  was  suffer- 
ing in  body  and  in  soul,  and  delusive  nature  has 
no  arts,  no  deceptions  to  compensate  these  suffer- 
ings.  .   .   . 

Then  she  saw  against  the  grey  background  how 
her  husband  every  spring  was  in  straits  for  money 
to  pay  the  interest  for  the  mortgage  to  the  bank. 
He  could  not  sleep,  she  could  not  sleep,  and  both 
racked  their  brains  till  their  heads  ached,  thinking 
how  to  avoid  being  visited  by  the  clerk  of  the  Court. 

She  saw  her  children:  the  everlasting  apprehen- 
sion of  colds,  scarlet  fever,  diphtheria,  bad  marks  at 
school,  separation.  Out  of  a  brood  of  five  or  six 
one  was  sure  to  die. 

The  grey  background  was  not  untouched  by  death. 
That  might  well  be.  A  husband  and  wife  cannot 
die  simultaneously.  Whatever  happened  one  must 
bury  the  other.  And  Nellie  saw  her  husband  dying. 
This  terrible  event  presented  itself  to  her  in  every 
detail.  She  saw  the  coffin,  the  candles,  the  deacon, 
and  even  the  footmarks  in  the  hall  made  by  the 
undertaker. 

"  Why  is  it,  what  is  it  for?  "  she  asked,  looking 
blankly  at  her  husband's  face. 


The  Looking-Glass  157 

And  all  the  previous  life  with  her  husband  seemed 
to  her  a  stupid  prelude  to  this. 

Something  fell  from  Nellie's  hand  and  knocked  on 
the  floor.  She  started,  jumped  up,  and  opened  her 
eyes  wide.  One  looking-glass  she  saw  lying  at  her 
feet.  The  other  was  standing  as  before  on  the 
table. 

She  looked  into  the  looking-glass  and  saw  a  pale, 
tear-stained  face.  There  was  no  grey  background 
now. 

"I  must  have  fallen  asleep,"  she  thought  with  a 
sigh  of  relief. 


OLD  AGE 


OLD  AGE 

Uzelkov,  an  architect  with  the  rank  of  civil  coun- 
cillor, arrived  in  his  native  town,  to  which  he  had 
been  invited  to  restore  the  church  in  the  cemetery. 
He  had  been  born  in  the  town,  had  been  at  school, 
had  grown  up  and  married  in  it.  But  when  he  got 
out  of  the  train  he  scarcely  recognized  it.  Every- 
thing was  changed.  .  .  .  Eighteen  years  ago  when 
he  had  moved  to  Petersburg  the  street-boys  used  to 
catch  marmots,  for  instance,  on  the  spot  where  now 
the  station  was  standing;  now  when  one  drove  into 
the  chief  street,  a  hotel  of  four  storeys  stood  facing 
one;  in  old  days  there  was  an  ugly  grey  fence  just 
there;  but  nothing — neither  fences  nor  houses — 
had  changed  as  much  as  the  people.  From  his  en- 
quiries of  the  hotel  waiter  Uzelkov  learned  that 
more  than  half  of  the  people  he  remembered  were 
dead,  reduced  to  poverty,  forgotten. 

"  And  do  you  remember  Uzelkov?  "  he  asked  the 
old  waiter  about  himself.  "  Uzelkov  the  architect 
who  divorced  his  wife?  He  used  to  have  a  house 
in  Svirebeyevsky  Street  .  .  .  you  must  remember." 

11 1  don't  remember,  sir." 

"  How  is  it  you  don't  remember?  The  case  made 
a  lot  of  noise,  even  the  cabmen  all  knew  about  it. 
Think,  now!  Shapkin  the  attorney  managed  my 
divorce  for  me,  the  rascal  .  .  .  the  notorious  card- 
sharper,  the  fellow  who  got  a  thrashing  at  the 
club.  .  .  . 

161 


162  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"Ivan  Nikolaitch?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  Well,  is  he  alive?    Is  he  dead?" 

"  Alive,  sir,  thank  God.  He  is  a  notary  now 
and  has  an  office.  He  is  very  well  off.  He  has  two 
houses  in  Kirpitchny  Street.  .  .  .  His  daughter  was 
married  the  other  day.   .   .   ." 

Uzelkov  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  thought  a 
bit,  and  in  his  boredom  made  up  his  mind  to  go  and 
see  Shapkin  at  his  office.  When  he  walked  out  of 
the  hotel  and  sauntered  slowly  towards  Kirpitchny 
Street  it  was  tnidday.  *  He  found  Shapkin  at  his 
office  and  scarcely  recognized  him.  From  the  once 
well-made,  adroit  attorney  with  a  mobile,  insolent, 
and  always  drunken  face  Shapkin  had  changed  into 
a  modest,  grey-headed,  decrepit  old  man. 

"  You  don't  recognize  me,  you  have  forgotten 
me,"  began  Uzelkov.  "  I  am  your  old  client, 
Uzelkov." 

"Uzelkov,  what  Uzelkov?  Ah!"  Shapkin  re- 
membered, recognized,  and  was  struck  all  of  a  heap. 
There  followed  a  shower  of  exclamations,  questions, 
recollections. 

"This  is  a  surprise!  This  is  unexpected!" 
cackled  Shapkin.  "  What  can  I  offer  you?  Do  you 
care  for  champagne?  Perhaps  you  would  like 
oysters?  My  dear  fellow,  I  have  had  so  much  from 
you  in  my  time  that  I  can't  offer  you  anything  equal 
to  the  occasion.   .   .   ." 

"  Please  don't  put  yourself  out  .  .  ."  said  Uzel- 
kov. "  I  have  no  time  to  spare.  I  must  go  at  once 
to  the  cemetery  and  examine  the  church;  I  have 
undertaken  the  restoration  of  it." 

"  That's  capital !    We'll  have  a  snack  and  a  drink 


Old  Age  163 

and  drive  together.  I  have  capital  horses.  I'll  take 
you  there  and  introduce  you  to  the  church-warden; 
I  will  arrange  it  all.  .  .  .  But  why  is  it,  my  angel, 
you  seem  to  be  afraid  of  me  and  hold  me  at  arm's 
length?  Sit  a  little  nearer!  There  is  no  need  for 
you  to  be  afraid  of  me  nowadays.  He-he  !  ...  At 
one  time,  it  is  true,  I  was  a  cunning  blade,  a  dog  of 
a  fellow  ...  no  one  dared  approach  me;  but  now 
I  am  stiller  than  water  and  humbler  than  the  grass. 
I  have  grown  old,  I  am  a  family  man,  I  have  chil- 
dren.   It's  time  I  was  dead." 

The  friends  had  lunch,  had  a  drink,  and  with 
a  pair  of  horses  drove  out  of  the  town  to  the 
cemetery. 

"  Yes,  those  were  times!  "  Shapkin  recalled  as  he 
sat  in  the  sledge.  "  When  you  remember  them  you 
simply  can't  believe  in  them.  Do  you  remember  how 
you  divorced  your  wife?  It's  nearly  twenty  years 
ago,  and  I  dare  say  you  have  forgotten  it  all;  but 
I  remember  it  as  though  I'd  divorced  you  yesterday. 
Good  Lord,  what  a  lot  of  worry  I  had  over  it!  I 
was  a  sharp  fellow,  tricky  and  cunning,  a  desperate 
character.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  was  burning  to  tackle 
some  ticklish  business,  especially  if  the  fee  were  a 
good  one,  as,  for  instance,  in  your  case.  What  did 
you  pay  me  then?  Five  or  six  thousand !  That  was 
worth  taking  trouble  for,  wasn't  it?  You  went  off 
to  Petersburg  and  left  the  whole  thing  in  my  hands 
to  do  the  best  I  could,  and,  though  Sofya  Mihai- 
lovna,  your  wife,  came  only  of  a  merchant  family, 
she  was  proud  and  dignified.  To  bribe  her  to  take 
the  guilt  on  herself  was  difficult,  awfully  difficult! 
I  would  go  to  negotiate  with  her,  and  as  soon  as  she 


164  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

saw  me  she  called  to  her  maid:  '  Masha,  didn't  I 
tell  you  not  to  admit  that  scoundrel?  '  Well,  I  tried 
one  thing  and  another.  ...  I  wrote  her  letters  and 
contrived  to  meet  her  accidentally — it  was  no  use ! 
I  had  to  act  through  a  third  person.  I  had  a  lot 
of  trouble  with  her  for  a  long  time,  and  she  only 
gave  in  when  you  agreed  to  give  her  ten  thousand. 
.  .  .  She  couldn't  resist  ten  thousand,  she  couldn't 
hold  out.  .  .  .  She  cried,  she  spat  in  my  face,  but 
she  consented,  she  took  the  guilt  on  herself !  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  fifteen  thousand  she  had  from 
me,  not  ten,"  said  Uzelkov. 

"  Yes,  yes  .  .  .  fifteen — I  made  a  mistake,"  said 
Shapkin  in  confusion.  "  It's  all  over  and  done  with, 
though,  it's  no  use  concealing  it.  I  gave  her  ten 
and  the  other  five  I  collared  for  myself.  I  deceived 
you  both.  .  .  *  It's  all  over  and  done  with,  it's  no 
use  to  be  ashamed.  And  indeed,  judge  for  yourself, 
Boris  Petrovitch,  weren't  you  the  very  person  for 
me  to  get  money  out  of  ?  .  .  .  You  were  a  wealthy 
man  and  had  everything  you  wanted.  .  .  .  Your 
marriage  was  an  idle  whim,  and  so  was  your  divorce. 
You  were  making  a  lot  of  money.  ...  I  remember 
you  made  a  scoop  of  twenty  thousand  over  one  con- 
tract. Whom  should  I  have  fleeced  if  not  you  ?  And 
I  must  own  I  envied  you.  If  you  grabbed  anything 
they  took  off  their  caps  to  you,  while  they  would 
thrash  me  for  a  rouble  and  slap  me  in  the  face  at 
the  club.  .  .  .  But  there,  why  recall  it?  It  is  high 
time  to  forget  it." 

11  Tell  me,  please,  how  did  Sofya  Mihailovna  get 
on  afterwards?  " 

41  With  her  ten  thousand?     Very  badly.     God 


Old  Age  165 

knows  what  it  was — she  lost  her  head,  perhaps,  or 
maybe  her  pride  and  her  conscience  tormented  her 
at  having  sold  her  honour,  or  perhaps  she  loved 
you;  but,  do  you  know,  she  took  to  drink.  ...  As 
soon  as  she  got  her  money  she  was  off  driving  about 
with  officers.  It  was  drunkenness,  dissipation,  de- 
bauchery. .  .  .  When  she  went  to  a  restaurant  with 
officers  she  was  not  content  with  port  or  anything 
light,  she  must  have  strong  brandy,  fiery  stuff  to 
stupefy  her." 

"  Yes,  she  was  eccentric.  ...  I  had  a  lot  to  put 
up  with  from  her  .  .  .  sometimes  she  would  take 
offence  at  something  and  begin  being  hysterical.  .  .  . 
And  what  happened  afterwards?" 

"  One  week  passed  and  then  another.  ...  I  was 
sitting  at  home,  writing  something.  All  at  once  the 
door  opened  and  she  walked  in  .  .  .  drunk.  '  Take 
back  your  cursed  money,'  she  said,  and  flung  a  roll 
of  notes  in  my  face.  ...  So  she  could  not  keep  it 
up.  I  picked  up  the  notes  and  counted  them.  It 
was  five  hundred  short  of  the  ten  thousand,  so  she 
had  only  managed  to  get  through  five  hundred." 

"  Where  did  you  put  the  money?  " 

"  It's  all  ancient  history  .  .  .  there's  no  reason 
to  conceal  it  now.  ...  In  my  pocket,  of  course. 
Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?  Wait  a  bit 
for  what  will  come  later.  .  .  .  It's  a  regular  novel, 
a  pathological  study.  A  couple  of  months  later 
I  was  going  home  one  night  in  a  nasty  drunken 
condition.  ...  I  lighted  a  candle,  and  lo  and  be- 
hold! Sofya  Mihailovna  was  sitting  on  my  sofa, 
and  she  was  drunk,  too,  and  in  a  frantic  state — as 
wild  as  though  she  had  run  out  of  Bedlam.     '  Give 


166  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

me  back  my  money,'  she  said,  '  I  have  changed  my 
mind;  if  I  must  go  to  ruin  I  won't  do  it  by  halves, 
I'll  have  my  fling!  Be  quick,  you  scoundrel,  give  me 
my  money !  '    A  disgraceful  scene  !  " 

11  And  you  .  .  .  gave  it  her?" 

"  I  gave  her,  I  remember,  ten  roubles." 

"  Oh!  How  could  you?  "  cried  Uzelkov,  frown- 
ing. "  If  you  couldn't  or  wouldn't  have  given  it 
her,  you  might  have  written  to  me.  .  .  .  And  I 
didn't  know  1    I  didn't  know !  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  what  use  would  it  have  been  for 
me  to  write,  considering  that  she  wrote  to  you  herself 
when  she  was  lying  in  the  hospital  afterwards?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  so  taken  up  then  with  my  second 
marriage.  I  was  in  such  a  whirl  that  I  had  no 
thoughts  to  spare  for  letters.  .  .  .  But  you  were 
an  outsider,  you  had  no  antipathy  for  Sofya  .  .  . 
why  didn't  you  give  her  a  helping  hand?  .   .   ." 

T<  You  can't  judge  by  the  standards  of  to-day, 
Boris  Petrovitch;  that's  how  we  look  at  it  now,  but 
at  the  time  we  thought  very  differently.  .  .  .  Now 
maybe  I'd  give  her  a  thousand  roubles,  but  then  even 
that  ten-rouble  note  I  did  not  give  her  for  nothing. 
It  was  a  bad  business!  .  .  .  We  must  forget  it. 
.  .  .  But  here  we  are.  .  .  ." 

The  sledge  stopped  at  the  cemetery  gates.  Uzel- 
kov and  Shapkin  got  out  of  the  sledge,  went  in  at 
the  gate,  and  walked  up  a  long,  broad  avenue.  The 
bare  cherry-trees  and  acacias,  the  grey  crosses  and 
tombstones,  were  silvered  with  hoar-frost,  every 
little  grain  of  snow  reflected  the  bright,  sunny  day. 
There  was  the  smell  there  always  is  in  cemeteries, 
the  smell  of  incense  and  freshly  dug  earth.   .   .   . 


Old  Age  167 

"  Our  cemetery  is  a  pretty  one,"  said  Uzelkov, 
11  quite  a  garden !  " 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  a  pity  thieves  steal  the  tombstones. 
.  .  .  And  over  there,  beyond  that  iron  monument 
on  the  right,  Sofya  Mihailovna  is  buried.  Would 
you  like  to  see?  " 

The  friends  turned  to  the  right  and  walked 
through  the  deep  snow  to  the  iron  monument. 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  Shapkin,  pointing  to  a  little 
slab  of  white  marble.  "  A  lieutenant  put  the  stone 
on  her  grave." 

Uzelkov  slowly  took  off  his  cap  and  exposed  his 
bald  head  to  the  sun.  Shapkin,  looking  at  him,  took 
off  his  cap  too,  and  another  bald  patch  gleamed  in 
the  sunlight.  There  was  the  stillness  of  the  tomb 
all  around  as  though  the  air,  too,  were  dead.  The 
friends  looked  at  the  grave,  pondered,  and  said 
nothing. 

"  She  sleeps  in  peace,"  said  Shapkin,  breaking  the 
silence.  "  It's  nothing  to  her  now  that  she  took  the 
blame  on  herself  and  drank  brandy.  You  must 
own,  Boris  Petrovitch  .  .  ." 

"  Own  what?"  Uzelkov  asked  gloomily. 

"  Why.  .  .  .  However  hateful  the  past,  it  was 
better  than  this." 

And  Shapkin  pointed  to  his  grey  head. 

"  I  used  not  to  think  of  the  hour  of  death.  .  .  . 
I  fancied  I  could  have  given  death  points  and  won 
the  game  if  we  had  had  an  encounter;  but  now.  .  .  . 
But  what's  the  good  of  talking!  " 

Uzelkov  was  overcome  with  melancholy.  He 
suddenly  had  a  passionate  longing  to  weep,  as  once 
he  had  longed  for  love,  and  he  felt  those  tears  would 


i68  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

have  tasted  sweet  and  refreshing.  A  moisture  came 
into  his  eyes  and  there  was  a  lump  in  his  throat,  but 
.  .  .  Shapkin  was  standing  beside  him  and  Uzelkov 
was  ashamed  to  show  weakness  before  a  witness. 
He  turned  back  abruptly  and  went  into  the  church. 
Only  two  hours  later,  after  talking  to  the  church- 
warden and  looking  over  the  church,  he  seized  a 
moment  when  Shapkin  was  in  conversation  with 
the  priest  and  hastened  away  to  weep.  .  .  .  He 
stole  up  to  the  grave  secretly,  furtively,  looking 
round  him  every  minute.  The  little  white  slab 
looked  at  him  pensively,  mournfully,  and  innocently 
as  though  a  little  girl  lay  under  it  instead  of  a 
dissolute,  divorced  wife. 

"  To  weep,  to  weep !  "  thought  Uzelkov, 
But  the  moment  for  tears  had  been  missed;  though 
the  old  man  blinked  his  eyes,  though  he  worked  up 
his  feelings,  the  tears  did  not  flow  nor  the  lump 
come  in  his  throat.  After  standing  for  ten  minutes, 
with  a  gesture  of  despair,  Uzelkov  went  to  look  for 
Shapkin. 


DARKNESS 


DARKNESS 

A  YOUNG  peasant,  with  white  eyebrows  and  eye- 
lashes and  broad  cheekbones,  in  a  torn  sheepskin 
and  big  black  felt  overboots,  waited  till  the  Zemstvo 
doctor  had  finished  seeing  his  patients  and  came  out 
to  go  home  from  the  hospital ;  then  he  went  up  to 
him,  diffidently. 

"  Please,  your  honour,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

The  young  man  passed  the  palm  of  his  hand  up 
and  over  his  nose,  looked  at  the  sky,  and  then 
answered: 

"  Please,  your  honour.  .  .  .  You've  got  my 
brother  Vaska  the  blacksmith  from  Varvarino  in 
the  convict  ward  here,  your  honour.   .   .  ." 

"Yes,  what  then?" 

"  I  am  Vaska's  brother,  you  see.  .  .  .  Father 
has  the  two  of  us:  him,  Vaska,  and  me,  Kirila;  be- 
sides us  there  are  three  sisters,  and  Vaska's  a  mar- 
ried man  with  a  little  one.  .  .  .  There  are  a  lot  of 
us  and  no  one  to  work.  ...  In  the  smithy  it's 
nearly  two  years  now  since  the  forge  has  been 
heated.  I  am  at  the  cotton  factory,  I  can't  do 
smith's  work,  and  how  can  father  work?  Let  alone 
work,  he  can't  eat  properly,  he  can't  lift  the  spoon 
to  his  mouth." 

"  What  do  you  want  from  me?  " 

11  Be  merciful !    Let  Vaska  go !  " 
171 


172  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

The  doctor  looked  wonderingly  at  Kirila,  and 
without  saying  a  word  walked  on.  The  young 
peasant  ran  on  in  front  and  flung  himself  in  a  heap 
at  his  feet. 

"Doctor,  kind  gentleman!"  he  besought  him, 
blinking  and  again  passing  his  open  hand  over  his 
nose.  "  Show  heavenly  mercy;  let  Vaska  go  home! 
We  shall  remember  you  in  our  prayers  for  ever! 
Your  honour,  let  him  go!  They  are  all  starving! 
Mother's  wailing  day  in,  day  out,  Vaska's  wife's 
wailing  .  .  .  it's  worse  than  death  !  I  don't  care  to 
look  upon  the  light  of  day.  Be  merciful;  let  him  go, 
kind  gentleman !  " 

"Are  you  stupid  or  out  of  your  senses?  "  asked 
the  doctor  angrily.  "  How  can  I  let  him  go?  Why, 
he  is  a  convict." 

Kirila  began  crying.     "  Let  him  go!  " 

"  Tfoo,  queer  fellow!  What  right  have  I?  Am 
I  a  gaoler  or  what?  They  brought  him  to  the 
hospital  for  me  to  treat  him,  but  I  have  as  much 
right  to  let  him  out  as  I  have  to  put  you  in  prison, 
silly  fellow!" 

"But  they  have  shut  him  up  for  nothing!  He 
was  in  prison  a  year  before  the  trial,  and  now  there 
is  no  saying  what  he  is  there  for.  It  would  have 
been  a  different  thing  if  he  had  murdered  someone, 
let  us  say,  or  stolen  horses;  but  as  it  is,  what  is  it  all 
about?" 

"  Very  likely,  but  how  do  I  come  in?  " 

"  They  shut  a  man  up  and  they  don't  know  them- 
selves what  for.  He  was  drunk,  your  honour,  did 
not  know  what  he  was  doing,  and  even  hit  father 
on  the  ear  and  scratched  his  own  cheek  on  a  branch, 


Darkness  173 

and  two  of  our  fellows — they  wanted  some  Turkish 
tobacco,  you  see — began  telling  him  to  go  with  them 
and  break  into  the  Armenian's  shop  at  night  for 
tobacco.  Being  drunk,  he  obeyed  them,  the  fool. 
They  broke  the  lock,  you  know,  got  in,  and  did  no 
end  of  mischief;  they  turned  everything  upside  down, 
broke  the  windows,  and  scattered  the  flour  about. 
They  were  drunk,  that  is  all  one  can  say !  Well,  the 
constable  turned  up  .  .  .  and  with  one  thing  and 
another  they  took  them  off  to  the  magistrate.  They 
have  been  a  whole  year  in  prison,  and  a  week  ago, 
on  the  Wednesday,  they  were  all  three  tried  in  the 
town.  A  soldier  stood  behind  them  with  a  gun  .  .  . 
people  were  sworn  in.  Vaska  was  less  to  blame 
than  any,  but  the  gentry  decided  that  he  was  the 
ringleader.  The  other  two  lads  were  sent  to  prison, 
but  Vaska  to  a  convict  battalion  for  three  years. 
And  what  for?  One  should  judge  like  a  Chris- 
tian!" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  I  tell  you  again. 
Go  to  the  authorities." 

"  I  have  been  already!     I've  been  to  the  court;  I 
have  tried  to  send  in  a  petition — they  wouldn't  take 
a  petition;  I  have  been  to  the  police  captain,  am* 
have  been  to  the  examining  magistrate,  and  ev 
one  says,  '  It  is  not  my  business !  '     Whose  bus 
is  it,  then?     But  there  is  no  one  above  you  h 
the  hospital;  you  do  what  you  like,  your  he 

"  You  simpleton,"  sighed  the  doctor,  "  c 
jury  have  found  him  guilty,  not  the  gove? 
even  the  minister,  could  do  anything,  let 
police   captain.     It's  no  good  your  try 
anything!  " 


174  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  And  who  judged  him,  then?  " 
"  The  gentlemen  of  the  jury.   .   .   ." 
"  They  weren't  gentlemen,  they  were  our  peas- 
ants!    Andrey  Guryev  was  one;  Aloshka  Huk  was 
one." 

11  Well,  I  am  cold  talking  to  you.  .  .  ." 
The  doctor  waved  his  hand  and  walked  quickly  to 
his  own  door.     Kirila  was  on  the  point  of  following 
him,  but,  seeing  the  door  slam,  he  stopped. 

For  ten  minutes  he  stood  motionless  in  the  middle 
of  the  hospital  yard,  and  without  putting  on  his  cap 
stared  at  the  doctor's  house,  then  he  heaved  a  deep 
sigh,  slowly  scratched  himself,  and  walked  towards 
the  gate. 

"  To  whom  am  I  to  go?  "  he  muttered  as  he  came 
out  on  to  the  road.  "  One  says  it  is  not  his  business, 
another  says  it  is  not  his  business.  Whose  business 
is  it,  then?  No,  till  you  grease  their  hands  you  will 
get  nothing  out  of  them.  The  doctor  says  that, 
but  he  keeps  looking  all  the  while  at  my  fist  to  see 
whether  I  am  going  to  give  him  a  blue  note.  Well, 
brother,  I'll  go,  if  it  has  to  be  to  the  governor." 

Shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other  and  continu- 
ally looking   round  him   in   an   objectless  way,   he 
'dged  lazily  along  the  road  and  was  apparently 
dering  where  to  go.   ...   It  was  not  cold  and 
low  faintly  crunched  under  his  feet.    Not  more 
>alf  a  mile  in  front  of  him  the  wretched  little 
town  in  which  his  brother  had  just  been  tried 
tretched  on  the  hill.     On  the  right  was  the 
•on  with  its  red  roof  and  sentry-boxes  at 
s;  on  the  left  was  the  big  town  copse,  now 
th  hoar-frost.     It  was  still;  only  an  old 


Darkness  175 

man,  wearing  a  woman's  short  jacket  and  a  huge 
cap,  was  walking  ahead,  coughing  and  shouting  to  a 
cow  which  he  was  driving  to  the  town. 

11  Good-day,  grandfather,"  said  Kirila,  overtak- 
ing him. 

"Good-day.  .  .  ." 

"  Are  you  driving  it  to  the  market?  " 

"  No,"  the  bid  man  answered  lazily. 

"Are  you  a  townsman?" 

They  got  into  conversation;  Kirila  told  him  what 
he  had  come  to  the  hospital  for,  and  what  he  had 
been  talking  about  to  the  doctor. 

"  The  doctor  does  not  know  anything  about  such 
matters,  that  is  a  sure  thing,"  the  old  man  said  to 
him  as  they  were  both  entering  the  town;  "  though 
he  is  a  gentleman,  he  is  only  taught  to  cure  by  every 
means,  but  to  give  you  real  advice,  or,  let  us  say, 
write  out  a  petition  for  you — that  he  cannot  do. 
There  are  special  authorities  to  do  that.  You  have 
been  to  the  justice  of  the  peace  and  to  the  police 
captain — they  are  no  good  for  your  business  either." 

"Where  am  I  to  go?" 

"  The  permanent  member  of  the  rural  board  is 
the  chief  person  for  peasants'  affairs.  Go  to  him, 
Mr.  Sineokov." 

"  The  one  who  is  at  Zolotovo?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  at  Zolotovo.  He  is  your  chief  man. 
If  it  is  anything  that  has  to  do  with  you  peasants 
even  the  police  captain  has  no  authority  against 
him." 

"  It's  a  long  way  to  go,  old  man.  ...  I  dare  say 
it's  twelve  miles  and  may  be  more." 

"  One  who  needs  something  will  go  seventy." 


176  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  That  is  so.  .  .  .  Should  I  send  in  a  petition  to 
him,  or  what?  " 

"  You  will  find  out  there.  If  you  should  have  a 
petition  the  clerk  will  write  you  one  quick  enough. 
The  permanent  member  has  a  clerk." 

After  parting  from  the  old  man  Kirila  stood  still 
in  the  middle  of  the  square,  thought  a  little,  and 
walked  back  out  of  the  town.  He  made  up  his  mind 
to  go  to  Zolotovo. 

Five  days  later,  as  the  doctor  was  on  his  way 
home  after  seeing  his  patients,  he  caught  sight  of 
Kirila  again  in  his  yard.  This  time  the  young  peas- 
ant was  not  alone,  but  with  a  gaunt,  very  pale  old 
man  who  nodded  his  head  without  ceasing,  like  a 
pendulum,  and  mumbled  with  his  lips. 

"  Your  honour,  I  have  come  again  to  ask  your 
gracious  mercy,"  began  Kirila.  "  Here  I  have  come 
with  my  father.  Be  merciful,  let  Vaska  go !  The 
permanent  member  would  not  talk  to  me.  He  said : 
'  Go  away!  '  " 

"  Your  honour,"  the  old  man  hissed  in  his  throat, 
raising  his  twitching  eyebrows,  "be  merciful!  We 
are  poor  people,  we  cannot  repay  your  honour,  but  if 
you  graciously  please,  Kiryushka  rv  Vaska  can  repay 
you  in  work.    Let  them  work." 

"  We  will  pay  with  work,"  said  Kirila,  and  he 
raised  his  hand  above  his  head  as  though  he  would 
take  an  oath.  "Let  him  go!  They  are  starving, 
they  are  crying  day  and  night,  your  honour!  " 

The  young  peasant  bent  a  rapid  glance  on  his 
father,  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  both  of  them, 
as  at  the  word  of  command,  fell  at  the  doctor's  feet. 
The  latter  waved  his  hand  in  despair,  and,  without 
looking  round,  walked  quickly  in  at  his  door. 


THE  BEGGAR 


THE  BEGGAR 

"  Kind  sir,  be  so  good  as  to  notice  a  poor,  hungry 
man.  I  have  not  tasted  food  for  three  days.  .  .  . 
I  have  not  a  five-kopeck  piece  for  a  night's  lodging. 
.  .  .  I  swear  by  God!  For  five  years  I  was  a 
village  schoolmaster  and  lost  my  post  through  the 
intrigues  of  the  Zemstvo.  I  was  the  victim  of  false 
witness.    I  have  been  out  of  a  place  for  a  year  now." 

Skvortsov,  a  Petersburg  lawyer,  looked  at  the 
speaker's  tattered  dark  blue  overcoat,  at  his  muddy, 
drunken  eyes,  at  the  red  patches  on  his  cheeks,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  seen  the  man  before. 

"  And  now  I  am  offered  a  post  in  the  Kaluga 
province,"  the  beggar  continued,  "  but  I  have  not 
the  means  for  the  journey  there.  Graciously  help 
me!  I  am  ashamed  to  ask,  but  ...  I  am  com- 
pelled by  circumstances." 

Skvortsov  looked  at  his  goloshes,  of  which  one 
was  shallow  like  a  shoe,  while  the  other  came  high 
up  the  leg  like  a  boot,  and  suddenly  remembered. 

"  Listen,  the  day  before  yesterday  I  met  you  in 
Sadovoy  Street,"  he  said,  "  and  then  you  told  me, 
not  that  you  were  a  village  schoolmaster,  but  that 
you  were  a  student  who  had  been  expelled.  Do 
you  remember?  " 

"  N-o.  No,  that  cannot  be  sol"  the  beggar 
muttered  in  confusion.  "  I  am  a  village  school- 
master, and  if  you  wish  it  I  can  show  you  docu- 
ments to  prove  it." 

179 


180  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"That's  enough  lies!  You  called  yourself  a 
student,  and  even  told  me  what  you  were  expelled 
for.     Do  you  remember?  " 

Skvortsov  flushed,  and  with  a  look  of  disgust  on 
his  face  turned  away  from  the  ragged  figure. 

"  It's  contemptible,  sir!  "  he  cried  angrily.  "  It's 
a  swindle !  I'll  hand  you  over  to  the  police,  damn 
you!  You  are  poor  and  hungry,  but  that  does  not 
give  you  the  right  to  lie  so  shamelessly!  " 

The  ragged  figure  took  hold  of  the  door-handle 
and,  like  a  bird  in  a  snare,  looked  round  the  hall 
desperately. 

"I  ...  I  am  not  lying,"  he  muttered.  "  I  can 
show  documents." 

"Who  can  believe  you?"  Skvortsov  went  on, 
still  indignant.  "  To  exploit  the  sympathy  of  the 
public  for  village  schoolmasters  and  students — it's 
so  low,  so  mean,  so  dirty!    It's  revolting  I  " 

Skvortsov  flew  into  a  rage  and  gave  the  beggar  a 
merciless  scolding.  The  ragged  fellow's  insolent 
lying  aroused  his  disgust  and  aversion,  was  an  of- 
fence against  what  he,  Skvortsov,  loved  and  prized 
in  himself:  kindliness,  a  feeling  heart,  sympathy  for 
the  unhappy.  By  his  lying,  by  his  treacherous  as- 
sault upon  compassion,  the  individual  had,  as  it 
were,  defiled  the  charity  which  he  liked  to  give  to 
the  poor  with  no  misgivings  in  his  heart.  The  beg- 
gar at  first  defended  himself,  protested  with  oaths, 
then  he  sank  into  silence  and  hung  his  head,  over- 
come with  shame. 

"  Sir!  "  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart,  "  I 
really  was  .  .  .  lying!    I  am  not  a  student  and  not 


The  Beggar  181 

a  village  schoolmaster.  All  that's  mere  invention ! 
I  used  to  be  in  the  Russian  choir,  and  I  was  turned 
out  of  it  for  drunkenness.  But  what  can  I  do? 
Believe  me,  in  God's  name,  I  can't  get  on  without 
lying — when  I  tell  the  truth  no  one  will  give  me 
anything.  With  the  truth  one  may  die  of  hunger 
and  freeze  without  a  night's  lodging!  What  you 
say  is  true,  I  understand  that,  but  .  .  .  what  am 
I  to  do?" 

"What  are  you  to  do?  You  ask  what  are  you 
to  do?"  cried  Skvortsov,  going  close  up  to  him. 
"  Work — that's  what  you  must  do !  You  must 
work!" 

"  Work.  ...  I  know  that  myself,  but  where 
can  I  get  work?  " 

"  Nonsense.  You  are  young,  strong,  and  healthy, 
and  could  always  find  work  if  you  wanted  to.  But 
you  know  you  are  lazy,  pampered,  drunken!  You 
reek  of  vodka  like  a  pothouse !  You  have  become 
false  and  corrupt  to  the  marrow  of  your  bones  and 
fit  for  nothing  but  begging  and  lying!  If  you  do 
graciously  condescend  to  take  work,  you  must  have 
a  job  in  an  office,  in  the  Russian  choir,  or  as  a 
billiard-marker,  where  you  will  have  a  salary  and 
have  nothing  to  do !  But  how  would  you  like  to 
undertake  manual  labour?  I'll  be  bound,  you 
wouldn't  be  a  house  porter  or  a  factory  hand !  You 
are  too  genteel  for  that !  " 

"  What  things  you  say,  really  ,  .  ."  said  the  beg- 
gar, and  he  gave  a  bitter  smile.  "  How  can  I  get 
manual  work?  It's  rather  late  for  me  to  be  a  shop- 
man, for  in  trade  one  has  to  begin  from  a  boy;  no 
one  would  take  me  as  a  house  porter,  because  I  am 


182  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

not  of  that  class.  .  .  .  And  I  could  not  get  work 
in  a  factory;  one  must  know  a  trade,  and  I  know 
nothing." 

"  Nonsense  1  You  always  find  some  justifica- 
tion!   Wouldn't  you  like  to  chop  wood?  " 

11 1  would  not  refuse  to,  but  the  regular  wood- 
choppers  are  out  of  work  now." 

"  Oh,  all  idlers  argue  like  that !  As  soon  as  you 
are  offered  anything  you  refuse  it.  Would  you 
care  to  chop  wood  for  me?  " 

"  Certainly  I  will.  .  .  ." 

"  Very  good,  we  shall  see.  .  .  »  Excellent.  .  .  . 
We'll  see !  "  Skvortsov,  in  nervous  haste,  and  not 
without  malignant  pleasure,  rubbing  his  hands,  sum- 
moned his  cook  from  the  kitchen. 

"  Here,  Olga,"  he  said  to  her,  "  take  this  gentle- 
man to  the  shed  and  let  him  chop  some  wood." 

The  beggar  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  though 
puzzled,  and  irresolutely  followed  the  cook.  It  was 
evident  from  his  demeanour  that  he  had  consented 
to  go  and  chop  wood,  not  because  he  was  hungry 
and  wanted  to  earn  money,  but  simply  from  shame 
and  amour  propre,  because  he  had  been  taken  at  his 
word.  It  was  clear,  too,  that  he  was  suffering  from 
the  effects  of  vodka,  that  he  was  unwell,  and  felt  not 
the  faintest  inclination  to  work. 

Skvortsov  hurried  into  the  dining-room.  There 
from  the  window  which  looked  out  into  the  yard 
he  could  see  the  woodshed  and  everything  that 
happened  in  the  yard.  Standing  at  the  window, 
Skvortsov  saw  the  cook  and  the  beggar  come  by  the 
back  way  into  the  yard  and  go  through  the  muddy 
snow  to  the  woodshed.     Olga  scrutinized  her  com- 


The  Beggar  183 

panion  angrily,  and  jerking  her  elbow  unlocked  the 
woodshed  and  angrily  banged  the  door  open. 

11  Most  likely  we  interrupted  the  woman  drinking 
her  coffee,"  thought  Skvortsov.  "  What  a  cross 
creature  she  is!  " 

Then  he  saw  the  pseudo-schoolmaster  and  pseudo- 
student  seat  himself  on  a  block  of  wood,  and,  lean- 
ing his  red  cheeks  upon  his  fists,  sink  into  thought. 
The  cook  flung  an  axe  at  his  feet,  spat  angrily  on 
the  ground,  and,  judging  by  the  expression  of  her 
lips,  began  abusing  him.  The  beggar  drew  a  log  of 
wood  towards  him  irresolutely,  set  it  up  between 
his  feet,  and  diffidently  drew  the  axe  across  it.  The 
log  toppled  and  fell  over.  The  beggar  drew  it  to- 
wards him,  breathed  on  his  frozen  hands,  and  again 
drew  the  axe  along  it  as  cautiously  as  though  he 
were  afraid  of  its  hitting  his  golosh  or  chopping 
off  his  fingers.    The  log  fell  over  again. 

Skvortsov's  wrath  had  passed  off  by  now,  he  felt 
sore  and  ashamed  at  the  thought  that  he  had  forced 
a  pampered,  drunken,  and  perhaps  sick  man  to  do 
hard,  rough  work  in  the  cold. 

"  Never  mind,  let  him  go  on  .  .  ."  he  thought, 
going  from  the  dining-room  into  his  study.  "  I  am 
doing  it  for  his  good!  " 

An  hour  later  Olga  appeared  and  announced  that 
the  wood  had  been  chopped  up. 

11  Here,  give  him  half  a  rouble,"  said  Skvortsov. 
"  If  he  likes,  let  him  come  arid  chop  wood  on  the 
first  of  every  month.  .  .  .  There  will  always  be 
work  for  him." 

On  the  first  of  the  month  the  beggar  turned  up 
and  again  earned  half  a  rouble,  though  he  could 


184  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

hardly  stand.  From  that  time  forward  he  took 
to  turning  up  frequently,  and  work  was  always 
found  for  him :  sometimes  he  would  sweep  the  snow 
into  heaps,  or  clear  up  the  shed,  at  another  he  used 
to  beat  the  rugs  and  the  mattresses.  He  always 
received  thirty  to  forty  kopecks  for  his  work,  and 
on  one  occasion  an  old  pair  of  trousers  was  sent 
out  to  him. 

When  he  moved,  Skvortsov  engaged  him  to  assist 
in  packing  and  moving  the  furniture.  On  this  occa- 
sion the  beggar  was  sober,  gloomy,  and  silent;  he 
scarcely  touched  the  furniture,  walked  with  hanging 
head  behind  the  furniture  vans,  and  did  not  even 
try  to  appear  busy;  he  merely  shivered  with  the  cold, 
and  was  overcome  with  confusion  when  the  men  with 
the  vans  laughed  at  his  idleness,  feebleness,  and 
ragged  coat  that  had  once  been  a  gentleman's.  After 
the  removal  Skvortsov  sent  for  him. 

"  Well,  I  see  my  words  have  had  an  effect  upon 
you,"  he  said,  giving  him  a  rouble.  "  This  is  for 
your  work.  I  see  that  you  are  sober  and  not  dis- 
inclined to  work.     What  is  your  name?  " 

"  Lushkov." 

11 1  can  offer  you  better  work,  not  so  rough,  Lush- 
kov.    Can  you  write?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  go  with  this  note  to-morrow  to  my  col- 
league and  he  will  give  you  some  copying  to  do. 
Work,  don't  drink,  and  don't  forget  what  I  said 
to  you.     Good-bye." 

Skvortsov,  pleased  that  he  had  put  a  man  in  the 
path  of  rectitude,  patted  Lushkov  genially  on  the 
shoulder,  and  even  shook  hands  with  him  at  parting. 


The  Beggar  185 

Lushkov  took  the  letter,  departed,  and  from  that 
time  forward  did  not  come  to  the  back-yard  for 
work. 

Two  years  passed.  One  day  as  Skvortsov  was 
standing  at  the  ticket-office  of  a  theatre,  paying  for 
his  ticket,  he  saw  beside  him  a  little  man  with  a 
lambskin  collar  and  a  shabby  cat's-skin  cap.  The 
man  timidly  asked  the  clerk  for  a  gallery  ticket  and 
paid  for  it  with  kopecks. 

"Lushkov,  is  it  you?"  asked  Skvortsov,  recog- 
nizing in  the  little  man  his  former  woodchopper. 
"Well,  what  are  you  doing?  Are  you  getting  on 
all  right?" 

"  Pretty  well.  ...  I  am  in  a  notary's  office 
now.     I  earn  thirty-five  roubles." 

"  Well,  thank  God,  that's  capital.  I  rejoice  for 
you.  I  am  very,  very  glad,  Lushkov.  You  know, 
in  a  way,  you  are  my  godson.  It  was  I  who  shoved 
you  into  the  right  way.  Do  you  remember  what  a 
scolding  I  gave  you,  eh?  You  almost  sank  through 
the  floor  that  time.  Well,  thank  you,  my  dear 
fellow,  for  remembering  my  words." 

"  Thank  you  too,"  said  Lushkov.  "  If  I  had  not 
come  to  you  that  day,  maybe  I  should  be  calling 
myself  a  schoolmaster  or  a  student  still.  Yes,  in 
your  house  I  was  saved,  and  climbed  out  of  the  pit." 

"  I  am  very,  very  glad." 

11  Thank  you  for  your  kind  words  and  deeds. 
What  you  said  that  day  was  excellent.  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you  and  to  your  cook,  God  bless  that  kind, 
noble-hearted  woman.  What  you  said  that  day  was 
excellent;  I  am  indebted  to  you  as  long  as  I  live,  of 


186  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

course,  but  it  was  your  cook,  Olga,  who  really  saved 
me. 

"  How  was  that?" 

"  Why,  it  was  like  this.  I  used  to  come  to  you 
to  chop  wood  and  she  would  begin :  '  Ah,  you 
drunkard !  You  God-forsaken  man !  And  yet  death 
does  not  take  you !  '  and  then  she  would  sit  opposite 
me,  lamenting,  looking  into  my  face  and  wailing: 
1  You  unlucky  fellow !  You  have  no  gladness  in  this 
world,  and  in  the  next  you  will  burn  in  hell,  poor 
drunkard !  You  poor  sorrowful  creature  !  '  and  she 
always  went  on  in  that  style,  you  know.  How  often 
she  upset  herself,  and  how  many  tears  she  shed  over 
me  I  can't  tell  you.  But  what  affected  me  most — she 
chopped  the  wood  for  me !  Do  you  know,  sir,  I 
never  chopped  a  single  log  for  you — she  did  it  all  1 
How  it  was  she  saved  me,  how  it  was  I  changed, 
looking  at  her,  and  gave  up  drinking,  I  can't  ex- 
plain. I  only  know  that  what  she  said  and  the  noble 
way  she  behaved  brought  about  a  change  in  my  soul, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  it.  It's  time  to  go  up, 
though,  they  are  just  going  to  ring  the  bell." 

Lushkov  bowed  and  went  off  to  the  gallery. 


A  STORY  WITHOUT  A  TITLE 


A  STORY  WITHOUT  A  TITLE 

In  the  fifth  century,  just  as  now,  the  sun  rose  every 
morning  and  every  evening  retired  to  rest.  In  the- 
morning,  when  the  first  rays  kissed  the  dew,  the 
earth  revived,  the- air  was  filled  with  the  sounds  of 
rapture  and  hope ;  while  in-  the  evening  the  same 
earth  subsided  into  silence  and  plunged  into  gloomy 
darkness.  One  day  was  like  another,  one  night  like 
another.  From  time  to  time  a. storm-cloud  raced  up 
and  there  was  the  angry  rumble  of  thunder,  or  a 
negligent  star  fell  out  of  the  sky,  or  a  pale  monk  ran 
to  tell  the  brotherhood  that  not  far  from  the  mon- 
astery he  had  seen  a  tiger — and  that  was  all,  and 
then  each  day  was  like  the  next. 

The  monks  worked  and  prayed,  and  their  Father 
Superior  played  on  the  organ,  made  Latin  verses, 
and  wrote  music.  The  wonderful  old  man  pos- 
sessed an  extraordinary  gift.  He  played  on  the 
organ  with  such  art  that  even  the  oldest  monks, 
whose  hearing  had  grown  somewhat  dull  towards 
the  end  of  their  lives,  could  not  restrain  their  tears 
when  the  sounds  of  the  organ  floated  from  his  cell. 
When  he  spoke  of  anything,  even  of  the  most  ordi- 
nary things — for  instance  of  the  trees,  of  the  wild 
beasts,  or  of  the  sea — they  could  not  listen  to  him 
without  a  smile  or  tears,  and  it  seemed  that  the 
same  chords  vibrated  in  his  soul  as  in  the  organ. 
If  he  were  moved  to  anger  or  abandoned  himself  to 

189 


190  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

intense  joy,  or  began  speaking  of  something  terrible 
or  grand,  then  a  passionate  inspiration  took  pos- 
session of  him,  tears  came  into  his  flashing  eyes,  his 
face  flushed,  and  his  voice  thundered,  and  as  the 
monks  listened  to  him  they  felt  that  their  souls  were 
spell-bound  by  his  inspiration;  at  such  marvellous, 
splendid  moments  his  power  over  them  was  bound- 
less, and  if  he  had  bidden  his  elders  fling  themselves 
into  the  sea,  they  would  all,  every  one  of  them,  have 
hastened  to  carry  out  his  wishes. 

His  music,  his  voice,  his  poetry  in  which  he  glori- 
fied God,  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  were  a  con- 
tinual source  of  joy  to  the  monks.  It  sometimes 
happened  that  through  the  monotony  of  their  lives 
they  grew  weary  of  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the  spring, 
the  autumn,  their  ears  were  tired  of  the  sound  of 
the  sea,  and  the  song  of  the  birds  seemed  tedious 
to  them,  but  the  talents  of  their  Father  Superior 
were  as  necessary  to  them  as  their  daily  bread. 

Dozens  of  years  passed  by,  and  every  day  was 
like  every  other  day,  every  night  was  like  every 
other  night.  Except  the  birds  and  the  wild  beasts, 
not  one  soul  appeared  near  the  monastery.  The 
nearest  human  habitation  was  far  away,  and  to 
reach  it  from  the  monastery,  or  to  reach  the  mon- 
astery from  it,  meant  a  journey  of  over  seventy  miles 
across  the  desert.  Only  men  who  despised  life,  who 
had  renounced  it,  and  who  came  to  the  monastery 
as  to  the  grave,  ventured  to  cross  the  desert. 

What  was  the  amazement  of  the  monks,  there- 
fore, when  one  night  there  knocked  at  their  gate 
a  man  who  turned  out  to  be  from  the  town,  and  the 
most  ordinary  sinner  who  loved  life.    Before  saying 


A  Story  Without  a  Title         191 

his  prayers  and  asking  for  the  Father  Superior's 
blessing,  this  man  asked  for  wine  and  food.  To  the 
question  how  he  had  come  from  the  town  into  the 
desert,  he  answered  by  a  long  story  of  hunting;  he 
had  gone  out  hunting,  had  drunk  too  much,  and  lost 
his  way.  To  the  suggestion  that  he  should  enter 
the  monastery  and  save  his  soul,  he  replied  with  a 
smile :  "  I  am  not  a  fit  companion  for  you !  " 

When  he  had  eaten  and  drunk  he  looked  at  the 
monks  who  were  serving  him,  shook  his  head  re- 
proachfully, and  said: 

"  You  don't  do  anything,  you  monks.  You  are 
good  for  nothing  but  eating  and  drinking.  Is  that 
the  way  to  save  one's  soul?  Only  think,  while  you 
sit  here  in  peace,  eat  and  drink  and  dream  of  beati- 
tude, your  neighbours  are  perishing  and  going  to 
hell.  You  should  see  what  is  going  on  in  the  town ! 
Some  are  dying  of  hunger,  others,  not  knowing  what 
to  do  with  their  gold,  sink  into  profligacy  and  perish 
like  flies  stuck  in  honey.  There  is  no  faith,  no 
truth  in  men.  Whose  task  is  it  to  save  them? 
Whose  work  is  it  to  preach  to  them?  It  is  not  for 
me,  drunk  from  morning  till  night  as  I  am.  Can 
a  meek  spirit,  a  loving  heart,  and  faith  in  God  have 
been  given  you  for  you  to  sit  here  within  four  walls 
doing  nothing?  " 

The  townsman's  drunken  words  were  insolent  and 
unseemly,  but  they  had  a  strange  effect  upon  the 
Father  Superior.  The  old  man  exchanged  glances 
with  his  monks,  turned  pale,  and  said: 

"  My  brothers,  he  speaks  the  truth,  you  know. 
Indeed,  poor  people  in  their  weakness  and  lack  of 
understanding  are  perishing  in  vice  and  infidelity, 


192  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

while  we  do  not  move,  as  though  it  did  not  concern 
us.  Why  should  I  not  go  and  remind  them  of  the 
Christ  whom  they  have  forgotten?  " 

The  townsman's  words  had  carried  the  old  man 
away.  The  next  day  he  took  his  staff,  said  farewell 
to  the  brotherhood,  and  set  off  for  the  town.  And 
the  monks  were  left  without  music,  and  without  his 
speeches  and  verses.  They  spent  a  month  drearily, 
then  a  second,  but  the  old  man  did  not  come  back. 
At  last  after  three  months  had  passed  the  familiar 
tap  of  his  staff  was  heard.  The  monks  flew  to  meet 
him  and  showered  questions  upon  him,  but  instead 
of  being  delighted  to  see  them  he  wept  bitterly  and 
did  not  utter  a  word.  The  monks  noticed  that  he 
looked  greatly  aged  and  had  grown  thinner;  his  face 
looked  exhausted  and  wore  an  expression  of  pro- 
found sadness,  and  when  he  wept  he  had  the  air  of  a 
man  who  has  been  outraged. 

The  monks  fell  to  weeping  too,  and  began  with 
sympathy  asking  him  why  he  was  weeping,  why  his 
face  was  so  gloomy,  but  he  locked  himself  in  his  cell 
without  uttering  a  word.  For  seven  days  he  sat  in 
his  cell,  eating  and  drinking  nothing,  weeping  and 
not  playing  on  his  organ.  To  knocking  at  his  door 
and  to  the  entreaties  of  the  monks  to  come  out  and 
share  his  grief  with  them  he  replied  with  unbroken 
silence. 

At  last  he  came  out.  Gathering  all  the  monks 
around  him,  with  a  tear-stained  face  and  with  an 
expression  of  grief  and  indignation,  he  began  telling 
them  of  what  had  befallen  him  during  those  three 
months.  His  voice  was  calm  and  his  eyes  were 
smiling  while  he  described  his  journey  from  the  mon- 


, 


A  Story  Without  a  Title         193 

astery  to  the  town.  On  the  road,  he  told  them,  the 
birds  sang  to  him,  the  brooks  gurgled,  and  sweet 
youthful  hopes  agitated  his  soul;  he  marched  on 
and  felt  like  a  soldier  going  to  battle  and  confident 
of  victory;  he  walked  on  dreaming,  and  composed 
poems  and  hymns,  and  reached  the  end  of  his  jour- 
ney without  noticing  it. 

But  his  voice  quivered,  his  eyes  flashed,  and  he 
was  full  of  wrath  when  he  came  to  speak  of  the  town 
and  of  the  men  in  it.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  seen 
or  even  dared  to  imagine  what  he  met  with  when  he 
went  into  the  town.  Only  then  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  in  his  old  age,  he  saw  and  understood  how 
powerful  was  the  devil,  how  fair  was  evil  and  how 
weak  and  faint-hearted  and  worthless  were  men. 
By  an  unhappy  chance  the  first  dwelling  he  entered 
was  the  abode  of  vice.  Some  fifty  men  in  possession 
of  much  money  were  eating  and  drinking  wine  be- 
yond measure.  Intoxicated  by  the  wine,  they  sang 
songs  and  boldly  uttered  terrible,  revolting  words 
such  as  a  God-fearing  man  could  not  bring  himself 
to  pronounce;  boundlessly  free,  self-confident,  and 
happy,  they  feared  neither  God  nor  the  devil,  nor 
death,  but  said  and  did  what  they  liked,  and  went 
whither  their  lust  led  them.  And  the  wine,  clear 
as  amber,  flecked  with  sparks  of  gold,  must  have 
been  irresistibly  sweet  and  fragrant,  for  each  man 
who  drank  it  smiled  blissfully  and  wanted  to  drink 
more.  To  the  smile  of  man  it  responded  with  a  smile 
and  sparkled  joyfully  when  they  drank  it,  as  though 
it  knew  the  devilish  charm  it  kept  hidden  in  its 
sweetness. 

The  old  man,  growing  more  and  more  incensed 


194  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

and  weeping  with  wrath,  went  on  to  describe  what 
he  had  seen.  On  a  table  in  the  midst  of  the  revellers, 
he  said,  stood  a  sinful,  half-naked  woman.  It  was 
hard  to  imagine  or  to  find  in  nature  anything  more 
lovely  and  fascinating.  This  reptile,  young,  long- 
haired, dark-skinned,  with  black  eyes  and  full  lips, 
shameless  and  insolent,  showed  her  snow-white  teeth 
and  smiled  as  though  to  say:  "  Look  how  shameless, 
how  beautiful  I  am."  Silk  and  brocade  fell  in  lovely 
folds  from  her  shoulders,  but  her  beauty  would  not 
hide  itself  under  her  clothes,  but  eagerly  thrust  itself 
through  the  folds,  like  the  young  grass  through  the 
ground  in  spring.  The  shameless  woman  drank 
wine,  sang  songs,  and  abandoned  herself  to  anyone 
who  wanted  her. 

Then  the  old  man,  wrathfully  brandishing  his 
arms,  described  the  horse-races,  the  bull-fights,  the 
theatres,  the  artists'  studios  where  they  painted 
naked  women  or  moulded  them  of  clay.  He  spoke 
with  inspiration,  with  sonorous  beauty,  as  though 
he  were  playing  on  unseen  chords,  while  the  monks, 
petrified,  greedily  drank  in  his  words  and  gasped 
with  rapture.   .   .   . 

After  describing  all  the  charms  of  the  devil,  the 
beauty  of  evil,  and  the  fascinating  grace  of  the 
dreadful  female  form,  the  old  man  cursed  the  devil, 
turned  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  cell.   .   .   . 

When  he  came  out  of  his  cell  in  the  morning 
there  was  not  a  monk  left  in  the  monastery;  they  had 
all  fled  to  the  town. 


IN  TROUBLE 


IN  TROUBLE 

Pyotr  Semyonitch,  the  bank  manager,  together 
with  the  book-keeper,  his  assistant,  and  two  mem- 
bers of  the  board,  were  taken  in  the  night  to  prison. 
The  day  after  the  upheaval  the  merchant  Avdeyev, 
who  was  one  of  the  committee  of  auditors,  was 
sitting  with  his  friends  in  the  shop  saying: 

"  So  it  is  God's  will,  it  seems.  There  is  no  escap- 
ing your  fate.  Here  to-day  we  are  eating  caviare 
and  to-morrow,  for  aught  we  know,  it  will  be  prison, 
beggary,  or  maybe  death.  Anything  may  happen. 
Take  Pyotr  Semyonitch,  for  instance.   .   .   ." 

He  spoke,  screwing  up  his  drunken  eyes,  while 
his  friends  went  on  drinking,  eating  caviare,  and 
listening.  Having  described  the  disgrace  and  help- 
lessness of  Pyotr  Semyonitch,  who  only  the  day 
before  had  been  powerful  and  respected  by  all, 
Avdeyev  went  on  with  a  sigh : 

"  The  tears  of  the  mouse  come  back  to  the  cat. 
Serve  them  right,  the  scoundrels !  They  could  steal, 
the  rooks,  so  let  them  answer  for  it!  " 

"  You'd  better  look  out,  Ivan  Danilitch,  that  you 
don't  catch  it  too !  "  one  of  his  friends  observed. 

"  What  has  it  to  do  with  me?  " 

"  Why,  they  were  stealing,  and  what  were  you 
auditors  thinking  about?  I'll  be  bound,  you  signed 
the  audit." 

"It's  all  very  well  to  talk!  "  laughed  Avdeyev: 
197 


198  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"Signed  it,  indeed!  They  used  to  bring  the  ac- 
counts to  my  shop  and  I  signed  them.  As  though 
I  understood  !  Give  me  anything  you  like,  I'll  scrawl 
my  name  to  it.  If  you  were  to  write  that  I  mur- 
dered someone  I'd  sign  my  name  to  it.  I  haven't 
time  to  go  into  it;  besides,  I  can't  see  without  my 
spectacles." 

After  discussing  the  failure  of  the  bank  and  the 
fate  of  Pyotr  Semyonitch,  Avdeyev  and  his  friends 
went  .to  eat  pie  at  the  house  of  a  friend  whose  wife 
was  celebrating  her  name-day.  At  the  name-day 
party  everyone  was  discussing  the  bank  failure. 
Avdeyev  was  more  excited  than  anyone,  and  de- 
clared that  he  had  long  foreseen  the  crash  and  knew 
two  years  before  that  things  were  not  quite  right  at 
the  bank.  While  they  were  eating  pie  he  described 
a  dozen  illegal  operations  which  had  come  to  his 
knowledge. 

"  If  you  knew,  why  did  you  not  give  informa- 
tion? "  asked  an  officer  who  was  present. 

"  I  wasn't  the  only  one:  the  whole  town  knew  of 
it,"  laughed  Avdeyev.  "  Besides,  I  haven't  the 
time  to  hang  about  the  law  courts,  damn  them!  " 

He  had  a  nap  after  the  pie  and  then  had  dinner, 
then  had  another  nap,  then  went  to  the  evening 
service  at  the  church  of  which  he  was  a  warden; 
after  the  service  he  went  back  to  the  name-day 
party  and  played  preference  till  midnight.  Every- 
thing seemed  satisfactory. 

But  when  Avdeyev  hurried  home  after  midnight 
the  cook,  who  opened  the  door  to  him,  looked  pale, 
and  was  trembling  so  violently  that  she  could  not 
utter  a  word.     His  wife,  Elizaveta  Trofimovna,  a 


In  Trouble  199 

flabby,  overfed  woman,  with  her  grey  hair 
hanging  loose,  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  the  draw- 
ing-room quivering  all  over,  and  vacantly  rolling 
her  eyes  as  though  she  were  drunk.  Her  elder  son, 
Vassily,  a  high-school  boy,  pale  too,  and  extremely 
agitated,  was  fussing  round  her  with  a  glass  of 
water. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Avdeyev,  and 
looked  angrily  sideways  at  the  stove  (his  family 
was  constantly  being  upset  by  the  fumes  from  it) . 

"  The  examining  magistrate  has  just  been  with 
the  police,"  answered  Vassily;  "they've  made  a 
search." 

Avdeyev  looked  round  him.  The  cupboards,  the 
chests,  the  tables — everything  bore  traces  of  the 
recent  search.  For  a  minute  Avdeyev  stood  mo- 
tionless as  though  petrified,  unable  to  understand; 
then  his  whole  inside  quivered  and  seemed  to  grow 
heavy,  his  left  leg  went  numb,  and,  unable  to  endure 
his  trembling,  he  lay  down  flat  on  the  sofa.  He  felt 
his  inside  heaving  and  his  rebellious  left  leg  tapping 
against  the  back  of  the  sofa. 

In  the  course  of  two  or  three  minutes  he  recalled 
the  whole  of  his  past,  but  could  not  remember  any 
crime  deserving  of  the  attention  of  the  police. 

"  It's  all  nonsense,"  he  said,  getting  up.  "  They 
must  have  slandered  me.  To-morrow  I  must  lodge 
a  complaint  of  their  having  dared  to  do  such  a 
thing." 

Next  morning  after  a  sleepless  night  Avdeyev, 
as  usual,  went  to  his  shop.  His  customers  brought 
him  the  news  that  during  the  night  the  public  prose- 
cutor had  sent  the  deputy  manager  and  the  head- 


200  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

clerk  to  prison  as  well.  This  news  did  not  disturb 
Avdeyev.  He  was  convinced  that  he  had  been  slan- 
dered, and  that  if  he  were  to  lodge  a  complaint 
to-day  the  examining  magistrate  would  get  into 
trouble  for  the  search  of  the  night  before. 

Between  nine  and  ten  o'clock,  he  hurried  to  the 
town  hall  to  see  the  secretary,  who  was  the  only 
educated  man  in  the  town  council. 

11  Vladimir  Stepanitch,  what's  this  new  fashion?  " 
he  said,  bending  down  to  the  secretary's  ear.  "  Peo- 
ple have  been  stealing,  but  how  do  I  come  in?  What 
has  it  to  do  with  me?  My  dear  fellow,"  he  whis- 
pered, "  there  has  been  a  search  at  my  house  last 
night!  Upon  my  word!  Have  they  gone  crazy? 
Why  touch  me?  " 

"  Because  one  shouldn't  be  a  sheep,"  the  secre- 
tary answered  calmly.  "  Before  you  sign  you  ought 
to  look." 

"  Look  at  what?  But  if  I  were  to  look  at  those 
accounts  for  a  thousand  years  I  could  not  make 
head  or  tail  of  them!  It's  all  Greek  to  me!  I  am 
no  book-keeper.  They  used  to  bring  them  to  me 
and  I  signed  them." 

"  Excuse  me.  Apart  from  that  you  and  your 
committee  are  seriously  compromised.  You  bor- 
rowed nineteen  thousand  from  the  bank,  giving  no 
security." 

"  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us!  "  cried  Avdeyev  in 
amazement.  "  I  am  not  the  only  one  in  debt  to 
the  bank !  The  whole  town  owes  it  money.  I  pay 
the  interest  and  I  shall  repay  the  debt.  What  next ! 
And  besides,  to  tell  the  honest  truth,  it  wasn't  I 
myself  borrowed  the  money.       Pyotr  Semyonitch 


In  Trouble  201 

forced  it  upon  me.  '  Take  it,'  he  said,  { take  it.  If 
you  don't  take  it,'  he  said,  '  it  means  that  you  don't 
trust  us  and  fight  shy  of  us.  You  take  it,'  he  said, 
1  and  build  your  father  a  mill.'    So  I  took  it." 

"  Well,  you  see,  none  but  children  or  sheep  can 
reason  like  that.  In  any  case,  slgnor,  you  need  not 
be  anxious.  You  can't  escape  trial,  of  course,  but 
you  are  sure  to  be  acquitted." 

The  secretary's  indifference  and  calm  tone  restored 
Avdeyev's  composure.  Going  back  to  his  shop  and 
finding  friends  there,  he  again  began  drinking,  eat- 
ing caviare,  and  airing  his  views.  He  almost  for- 
got the  police  search,  and  he  was  only  troubled  by 
one  circumstance  which  he  could  not  help  noticing: 
his  left  leg  was  strangely  numb,  and  his  stomach  for 
some  reason  refused  to  do  its  work. 

That  evening  destiny  dealt  another  overwhelm- 
ing blow  at  Avdeyev :  at  an  extraordinary  meeting  of 
the  town  council  all  members  who  were  on  the  staff 
of  the  bank,  Avdeyev  among  them,  were  asked  to 
resign,  on  the  ground  that  they  were  charged  with 
a  criminal  offence.  In  the  morning  he  received  a 
request  to  give  up  immediately  his  duties  as  church- 
warden. 

After  that  Avdeyev  lost  count  of  the  blows  dealt 
him  by  fate,  and  strange,  unprecedented  days  flitted 
rapidly  by,  one  after  another,  and  every  day  brought 
some  new,  unexpected  surprise.  Among  other 
things,  the  examining  magistrate  sent  him  a  sum- 
mons, and  he  returned  home  after  the  interview, 
insulted  and  red  in  the  face. 

"  He  gave  me  no  peace,  pestering  me  to  tell  him 
why  I  had  signed.     I  signed,  that's  all  about  it.     I 


202  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

didn't  do  it  on  purpose.  They  brought  the  papers 
to  the  shop  and  I  signed  them.  I  am  no  great  hand 
at  reading  writing." 

Young  men  with  unconcerned  faces  arrived,  sealed 
up  the  shop,  and  made  an  inventory  of  all  the  fur- 
niture of  the  house.  Suspecting  some  intrigue  be- 
hind this,  and,  as  before,  unconscious  of  any  wrong- 
doing, Avdeyev  in  his  mortification  ran  from  one 
Government  office  to  another  lodging  complaints. 
He  spent  hours  together  in  waiting-rooms,  composed 
long  petitions,  shed  tears,  swore.  To  his  complaints 
the  public  prosecutor  and  the  examining  magistrate 
made  the  indifferent  and  rational  reply:  "  Come  to 
us  when  you  are  summoned:  we  have  not  time  to 
attend  to  you  now."  While  others  answered:  "  It 
is  not  our  business." 

The  secretary,  an  educated  man,  who,  Avdeyev 
thought,  might  have  helped  him,  merely  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  said: 

"  It's  your  own  fault.  You  shouldn't  have  been 
a  sheep." 

The  old  man  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  but 
his  left  leg  was  still  numb,  and  his  digestion  was 
getting  worse  and  worse.  When  he  was  weary  of 
doing  nothing  and  was  getting  poorer  and  poorer, 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  his  father's  mill,  or 
to  his  brother,  and  begin  dealing  in  corn.  His 
family  went  to  his  father's  and  he  was  left  alone. 
The  days  flitted  by,  one  after  another.  Without 
a  family,  without  a  shop,  and  without  money,  the 
former  churchwarden,  an  honoured  and  respected 
man,  spent  whole  days  going  the  round  of  his 
friends'    shops,    drinking,    eating,    and   listening   to 


In  Trouble  203 

advice.  In  the  mornings  and  in  the  evenings,  to 
while  away  the  time,  he  went  to  church.  Looking 
for  hours  together  at  the  ikons,  he  did  not  pray, 
but  pondered.  His  conscience  was  clear,  and  he 
ascribed  his  position  to  mistake  and  misunderstand- 
ing; to  his  mind,  it  was  all  due  to  the  fact  that  the 
officials  and  the  examining  magistrates  were  young 
men  and  inexperienced.  It  seemed  to  him  that  if 
he  were  to  talk  it  over  in  detail  and  open  his  heart 
to  some  elderly  judge,  everything  would  go  right 
again.  He  did  not  understand  his  judges,  and  he 
fancied  they  did  not  understand  him. 

The  days  raced  by,  and  at  last,  after  protracted, 
harassing  delays,  the  day  of  the  trial  came.  Avde- 
yev  borrowed  fifty  roubles,  and  providing  himself 
with  spirit  to  rub  on  his  leg  and  a  decoction  of  herbs 
for  his  digestion,  set  off  for  the  town  where  the 
circuit  court  was  being  held. 

The  trial  lasted  for  ten  days.  Throughout  the 
trial  Avdeyev  sat  among  his  companions  in  misfor- 
tune with  the  stolid  composure  and  dignity  befitting 
a  respectable  and  innocent  man  who  is  suffering  for 
no  fault  of  his  own :  he  listened  and  did  not  under- 
stand a  word.  He  was  in  an  antagonistic  mood. 
He  was  angry  at  being  detained  so  long  in  the  court, 
at  being  unable  to  get  Lenten  food  anywhere,  at  his 
defending  counsel's  not  understanding  him,  and,  as 
he  thought,  saying  the  wrong  thing.  He  thought 
that  the  judges  did  not  understand  their  business. 
They  took  scarcely  any  notice  of  Avdeyev,  they  only 
addressed  him  once  in  three  days,  and  the  questions 
they  put  to  him  were  of  such  a  character  that  Avde- 
yev raised  a  laugh  in  the   audience   each  time  he 


204  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

answered  them.  When  he  tried  to  speak  of  the 
expenses  he  had  incurred,  of  his  losses,  and  of  his 
meaning  to  claim  his  costs  from  the  court,  his  coun- 
sel turned  round  and  made  an  incomprehensible 
grimace,  the  public  laughed,  and  the  judge  an- 
nounced sternly  that  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  case.  The  last  words  that  he  was  allowed  to  say 
were  not  what  his  counsel  had  instructed  him  to  say, 
but  something  quite  different,  which  raised  a  laugh 
again. 

During  the  terrible  hour  when  the  jury  were  con- 
sulting in  their  room  he  sat  angrily  in  the  refresh- 
ment bar,  not  thinking  about  the  jury  at  all.  He  did 
not  understand  why  they  were  so  long  deliberating 
when  everything  was  so  clear,  and  what  they  wanted 
of  him. 

Getting  hungry,  he  asked  the  waiter  to  give  him 
some  cheap  Lenten  dish.  For  forty  kopecks  they 
gave  him  some  cold  fish  and  carrots.  He  ate  it  and 
felt  at  once  as  though  the  fish  were  heaving  in  a 
chilly  lump  in  his  stomach;  it  was  followed  by  flatu- 
lence, heartburn,  and  pain. 

Afterwards,  as  he  listened  to  the  foreman  of  the 
jury  reading  out  the  questions  point  by  point,  there 
was  a  regular  revolution  taking  place  in  his  inside, 
his  whole  body  was  bathed  in  a  cold  sweat,  his  left 
leg  was  numb;  he  did  not  follow,  understood  noth- 
ing, and  suffered  unbearably  at  not  being  able  to  sit 
or  lie  down  while  the  foreman  was  reading.  At  last, 
when  he  and  his  companions  were  allowed  to  sit 
down,  the  public  prosecutor  got  up  and  said  some- 
thing unintelligible,  and  all  at  once,  as  though  they 
had  sprung  out  of  the  earth,  some  police  officers 


In  Trouble  205 

appeared  on  the  scene  with  drawn  swords  and  sur- 
rounded all  the  prisoners.  Avdeyev  was  told  to  get 
up  and  go. 

Now  he  understood  that  he  was  found  guilty  and 
in  charge  of  the  police,  but  he  was  not  frightened  nor 
amazed;  such  a  turmoil  was  going  on  in  his  stomach 
that  he  could  not  think  about  his  guards. 

"  So  they  won't  let  us  go  back  to  the  hotel?  "  he 
asked  one  of  his  companions.  "  But  I  have  three 
roubles  and  an  untouched  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea 
in  my  room  there." 

He  spent  the  night  at  the  police  station;  all  night 
he  was  aware  of  a  loathing  for  fish,  and  was  thinking 
about  the  three  roubles  and  the  quarter  of  a  pound 
of  tea.  Early  in  the  morning,  when  the  sky  was 
beginning  to  turn  blue,  he  was  told  to  dress  and  set 
off.  Two  soldiers  with  bayonets  took  him  to  prison. 
Never  before  had  the  streets  of  the  town  seemed  to 
him  so  long  and  endless.  He  walked  not  on  the 
pavement  but  in  the  middle  of  the  road  in  the 
muddy,  thawing  snow.  His  inside  was  still  at  war 
with  the  fish,  his  left  leg  was  numb ;  he  had  forgotten 
his  goloshes  either  in  the  court  or  in  the  police  sta- 
tion, and  his  feet  felt  frozen. 

Five  days  later  all  the  prisoners  were  brought 
before  the  court  again  to  hear  their  sentence. 
Avdeyev  learnt  that  he  was  sentenced  to  exile  in  the 
province  of  Tobolsk.  And  that  did  not  frighten  nor 
amaze  him  either.  He  fancied  for  some  reason  that 
the  trial  was  not  yet  over,  that  there  were  more 
adjournments  to  come,  and  that  the  final  decision 
had  not  been  reached  yet.  .  .  .  He  went  on  in  the 
prison  expecting  this  final  decision  every  day. 


2o6  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Only  six  months  later,  when  his  wife  and  his  son 
Vassily  came  to  say  good-bye  to  him,  and  when  in 
the  wasted,  wretchedly  dressed  old  woman  he 
scarcely  recognized  his  once  fat  and  dignified  Eliza- 
veta Trofimovna,  and  when  he  saw  his  son  wearing 
a  short,  shabby  reefer-jacket  and  cotton  trousers 
instead  of  the  high-school  uniform,  he  realized  that 
his  fate  was  decided,  and  that  whatever  new  "  deci- 
sion "  there  might  be,  his  past  would  never  come 
back  to  him.  And  for  the  first  time  since  the  trial 
and  his  imprisonment  the  angry  expression  left  his 
face,  and  he  wept  bitterly. 


FROST 


FROST 

A  "  POPULAR  "  fete  with  a  philanthropic  object  had 
been  arranged  on  the  Feast  of  Epiphany  in  the  pro- 
vincial town  of  N .    They  had  selected  a  broad 

part  of  the  river  between  the  market  and  the 
bishop's  palace,  fenced  it  round  with  a  rope,  with 
fir-trees  and  with  flags,  and  provided  everything 
necessary  for  skating,  sledging,  and  tobogganing. 
The  festivity  was  organized  on  the  grandest  scale 
possible.  The  notices  that  were  distributed  were 
of  huge  size  and  promised  a  number  of  delights: 
skating,  a  military  band,  a  lottery  with  no  blank 
tickets,  an  electric  sun,  and  so  on.  But  the  whole 
scheme  almost  came  to  nothing  owing  to  the  hard 
frost.  From  the  eve  of  Epiphany  there  were 
twenty-eight  degrees  of  frost  with  a  strong  wind; 
it  was  proposed  to  put  off  the  fete,  and  this  was 
not  done  only  because  the  public,  which  for  a  long 
while  had  been  looking  forward  to  the  fete  impa- 
tiently, would  not  consent  to  any  postponement. 

"  Only  think,  what  do  you  expect  in  winter  but 
a  frost!  "  said  the  ladies  persuading  the  governor, 
who  tried  to  insist  that  the  fete  should  be  post- 
poned. "  If  anyone  is  cold  he  can  go  and  warm 
himself." 

The  trees,  the  horses,  the  men's  beards  were  white 
with  frost;  it  even  seemed  that  the  air  itself 
crackled,  as  though  unable  to  endure  the  cold;  but 

209 


210  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

in  spite  of  that  the  frozen  public  were  skating.  Im- 
mediately after  the  blessing  of  the  waters  and  pre- 
cisely at  one  o'clock  the  military  band  began  playing. 

Between  three  and  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
when  the  festivity  was  at  its  height,  the  select  society 
of  the  place  gathered  together  to  warm  themselves 
in  the  governor's  pavilion,  which  had  been  put  up 
on  the  river-bank.  The  old  governor  and  his  wife, 
the  bishop,  the  president  of  the  local  court,  the 
head  master  of  the  high  school,  and  many  others, 
were  there.  The  ladies  were  sitting  in  armchairs, 
while  the  men  crowded  round  the  wide  glass  door, 
looking  at  the  skating. 

"Holy  Saints!"  said  the  bishop  in  surprise; 
"  what  flourishes  they  execute  with  their  legs ! 
Upon  my  soul,  many  a  singer  couldn't  do  a  twirl 
with  his  voice  as  those  cut-throats  do  with  their 
legs.     Aie!  he'll  kill  himself!" 

"  That's  Smirnov.  .  .  .  That's  Gruzdev  .  .  ." 
said  the  head  master,  mentioning  the  names  of  the 
schoolboys  who  flew  by  the  pavilion. 

"  Bah!  he's  all  alive-oh!  "  laughed  the  governor. 
"  Look,  gentlemen,  our  mayor  is  coming.  .  .  .  He 
is  coming  this  way.  .  .  .  That's  a  nuisance,  he  will 
talk  our  heads  off  now." 

A  little  thin  old  man,  wearing  a  big  cap  and  a 
fur-lined  coat  hanging  open,  came  from  the  oppo- 
site bank  towards  the  pavilion,  avoiding  the  skaters. 
This  was  the  mayor  of  the  town,  a  merchant,  Ere- 
meyev  by  name,  a  millionaire  and  an  old  inhabitant 

of  N .     Flinging  wide  his  arms  and  shrugging 

at  the  cold,  he  skipped  along,  knocking  one  golosh 
against  the  other,  evidently  in  haste  to  get  out  of 


Frost  211 

the  wind.  Half-way  he  suddenly  bent  down,  stole 
up  to  some  lady,  and  plucked  at  her  sleeve  from 
behind.  When  she  looked  round  he  skipped  away, 
and  probably  delighted  at  having  succeeded  in 
frightening  her,  went  oft  into  a  loud,  aged  laugh. 

"  Lively  old  fellow,"  said  the  governor.  "  It's 
a  wonder  he's  not  skating." 

As  he  got  near  the  pavilion  the  mayor  fell  into 
a  little  tripping  trot,  waved  his  hands,  and,  taking 
a  run,  slid  along  the  ice  in  his  huge  golosh  boots  up 
to  the  very  door. 

"  Yegor  Ivanitch,  you  ought  to  get  yourself  some 
skates!  "  the  governor  greeted  him. 

"  That's  just  what  I  am  thinking,"  he  answered 
in  a  squeaky,  somewhat  nasal  tenor,  taking  off  his 
cap.  "  I  wish  you  good  health,  your  Excellency ! 
Your  Holiness!  Long  life  to  all  the  other  gentle- 
men and  ladies!  Here's  a  frost!  Yes,  it  is  a  frost, 
bother  it!     It's  deadly!  " 

Winking  with  his  red,  frozen  eyes,  Yegor  Ivan- 
itch  stamped  on  the  floor  with  his  golosh  boots  and 
swung  his  arms  together  like  a  frozen  cabman. 

"  Such  a  damnable  frost,  worse  than  any  dog!  " 
he  went  on  talking,  smiling  all-over  his  face.  "  It's 
a  real  affliction!  " 

"  It's  healthy,"  said  the  governor;  "frost  strength- 
ens a  man  and  makes  him  vigorous.   .   .  ." 

"  Though  it  may  be  healthy,  it  would  be  better 
without  it  at  all,"  said  the  mayor,  wiping  his  wedge- 
shaped  beard  with  a  red  handkerchief.  "  It 
would  be  a  good  riddance!  To  my  thinking,  your 
Excellency,  the  Lord  sends  it  us  as  a  punishment — 


212  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  frost,  I  mean.  We  sin  in  the  summer  and  are 
punished  in  the  winter.   .   .   .  Ye's !  " 

Yegor  Ivanitch  looked  round  him  quickly  and 
flung  up  his  hands. 

"  Why,  where's  the  needful  ...  to  warm  us 
up  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  in  alarm  first  at  the  governor 
and  then  at  the  bishop.  "Your  Excellency!  Your 
Holiness!  I'll  be  bound,  the  ladies  are  frozen  too! 
We  must  have  something,  this  won't  do !  " 

Everyone  began  gesticulating  and  declaring  that 
they  had  not  come  to  the  skating  to  warm  them- 
selves, but  the  mayor,  heeding  no  one,  opened  the 
door  and  beckoned  to  someone  with  his  crooked 
finger.    A  workman  and  a  fireman  ran  up  to  him. 

"  Here,  run  off  to  Savatin,"  he  muttered,  "  and 
tell  him  to  make  haste  and  send  here  .  .  .  what  do 
you  call  it?  .  .  .  What's  it  to  be?  Tell  him  to 
send  a  dozen  glasses  ...  a  dozen  glasses  of  mulled 
wine,  the  very  hottest,  or  punch,  perhaps.   .   .   ." 

There  was  laughter  in  the  pavilion. 

"A  nice  thing  to  treat  us  to!  " 

"  Never  mind,  we  will  drink  it,"  muttered  the 
mayor;  "  a  dozen  glasses,  then  .  .  .  and  some 
Benedictine,  perhaps  .  .  .  and  tell  them  to  warm 
two  bottles  of  red  wine.  .  .  .  Oh,  and  what  for 
the  ladies?  Well,  you  tell  them  to  bring  cakes, 
nuts  .  .  .  sweets  of  some  sort,  perhaps.  .  .  . 
There,  run  along,  look  sharp!  " 

The  mayor  was  silent  for  a  minute  and  then  began 
again  abusing  the  frost,  banging  his  arms  across  his 
chest  and  thumping  with  his  golosh  boots. 

"  No,  Yegor  Ivanitch,"  said  the  governor  per- 
suasively,  "don't  be  unfair,  the  Russian  frost  has 


Frost  213 

its  charms.  I  was  reading  lately  that  many  of  the 
good  qualities  of  the  Russian  people  are  due  to  the 
vast  expanse  of  their  land  and  to  the  climate,  the 
cruel  struggle  for  existence  .  .  .  that's  perfectly 
true!" 

"  It  may  be  true,  your  Excellency,  but  it  would 
be  better  without  it.  The  frost  did  drive  out  the 
French,  of  course,  and  one  can  freeze  all  sorts  of 
dishes,  and  the  children  can  go  skating — that's  all 
true  !  For  the  man  who  is  well  fed  and  well  clothed 
the  frost  is  only  a  pleasure,  but  for  the  working 
man,  the  beggar,  the  pilgrim,  the  crazy  wanderer,  it's 
the  greatest  evil  and  misfortune.  It's  misery,  your 
Holiness!  In  a  frost  like  this  poverty  is  twice  as 
hard,  and  the  thief  is  more  cunning  and  evildoers 
more  violent.  There's  no  gainsaying  it !  I  am 
turned  seventy,  I've  a  fur  coat  now,  and  at  home  I 
have  a  stove  and  rums  and  punches  of  all  sorts.  The 
frost  means  nothing  to  me  now;  I  take  no  notice  of 
it,  I  don't  care  to  know  of  it,  but  how  it  used  to  be 
in  old  days,  Holy  Mother!  It's  dreadful  to  recall 
it !  My  memory  is  failing  me  with  years  and  I  have 
forgotten  everything;  my  enemies,  and  my  sins  and 
troubles  of  all  sorts — I  forget  them  all,  but  the  frost 
— ough !  How  I  remember  it !  When  my  mother 
died  I  was  left  a  little  devil — this  high — a  homeless 
orphan  .  .  .  no  kith  nor  kin,  wretched,  ragged,  little 
clothes,  hungry,  nowhere  to  sleep — in  fact,  '  we  have 
here  no  abiding  city,  but  seek  the  one  to  come.'  In 
those  days  I  used  to  lead  an  old  blind  woman  about 
the  town  for  five  kopecks  a  day  .  .  .  the  frosts 
were  cruel,  wicked.  One  would  go  out  with  the 
old   woman    and    begin    suffering    torments.      My 


214  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Creator!  First  of  all  you  would  be  shivering  as  in 
a  fever,  shrugging  and  dancing  about.  Then  your 
ears,  your  fingers,  your  feet,  would  begin  aching. 
They  would  ache  as  though  someone  were  squeezing 
them  with  pincers.  But  all  that  would  have  been 
nothing,  a  trivial  matter,  of  no  great  consequence. 
The  trouble  was  when  your  whole  body  was  chilled. 
One  would  walk  for  three  blessed  hours  in  the  frost, 
your  Holiness,  and  lose  all  human  semblance.  Your 
legs  are  drawn  up,  there  is  a  weight  on  your  chest, 
your  stomach  is  pinched;  above  all,  there  is  a  pain 
in  your  heart  that  is  worse  than  anything.  Your 
heart  aches  beyond  all  endurance,  and  there  is  a 
wretchedness  all  over  your  body  as  though  you  were 
leading  Death  by  the  hand  instead  of  an  old  woman. 
You  are  numb  all  over,  turned  to  stone  like  a  statue; 
you  go  on  and  feel  as  though  it  were  not  you  walking, 
but  someone  else  moving  your  legs  instead  of  you. 
When  your  soul  is  frozen  you  don't  know  what  you 
are  doing:  you  are  ready  to  leave  the  old  woman 
with  no  one  to  guide  her,  or  to  pull  a  hot  roll  from 
off  a  hawker's  tray,  or  to  fight  with  someone.  And 
when  you  come  to  your  night's  lodging  into  the 
warmth  after  the  frost,  there  is  not  much  joy  in  that 
either !  You  lie  awake  till  midnight,  crying,  and 
don't  know  yourself  what  you  are  crying  for.  .   .   ." 

"  We  must  walk  about  the  skating-ground  before 
it  gets  dark,"  said  the  governor's  wife,  who  was 
bored  with  listening.     "Who's  coming  with  me?" 

The  governor's  wife  went  out  and  the  whole  com- 
pany trooped  out  of  the  pavilion  after  her.  Only 
the  governor,  the  bishop,  and  the  mayor  remained. 

"  Queen  of  Heaven !  and  what  I  went  through 


Frost  215 

when  I  was  a  shopboy  in  a  fish-shop !  "  Yegor  Ivan- 
itch  went  on,  flinging  up  his  arms  so  that  his  fox- 
lined  coat  fell  open.  "  One  would  go  out  to  the  shop 
almost  before  it  was  light  ...  by  eight  o'clock  I 
was  completely  frozen,  my  face  was  blue,  my  fingers 
were  stiff  so  that  I  could  not  fasten  my  buttons  nor 
count  the  money.  One  would  stand  in  the  cold,  turn 
numb,  and  think,  '  Lord,  I  shall  have  to  stand  like 
this  right  on  till  evening !  '  By  dinner-time  my 
stomach  was  pinched  and  my  heart  was  aching.  .  .  . 
Yes!  And  I  was  not  much  better  afterwards  when 
I  had  a  shop  of  my  own.  The  frost  was  intense  and 
the  shop  was  like  a  mouse-trap  with  draughts  blow- 
ing in  all  directions;  the  coat  I  had  on  was,  pardon 
me,  mangy,  as  thin  as  paper,  threadbare.  .  .  .  One 
would  be  chilled  through  and  through,  half  dazed, 
and  turn  as  cruel  as  the  frost  oneself :  I  would  pull 
one  by  the  ear  so  that  I  nearly  pulled  the  ear  off;  I 
would  smack  another  on  the  back  of  the  head;  I'd 
glare  at  a  customer  like  a  ruffian,  a  wild  beast,  and 
be  ready  to  fleece  him;  and  when  I  got  home  in  the 
evening  and  ought  to  have  gone  to  bed,  I'd  be  ill- 
humoured  and  set  upon  my  family,  throwing  it  in 
their  teeth  that  they  were  living  upon  me;  I  would 
make  a  row  and  carry  on  so  that  half  a  dozen  police- 
men couldn't  have  managed  me.  The  frost  makes 
one  spiteful  and  drives  one  to  drink." 

Yegor  Ivanitch  clasped  his  hands  and  went  on: 
"  And  when  we  were  taking  fish  to  Moscow  in 
the  winter,  Holy  Mother!"  And  spluttering  as 
he  talked,  he  began  describing  the  horrors  he  en- 
dured with  his  shopmen  when  he  was  taking  fish  to 
Moscow.  .  .  , 


2l6  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

11  Yes,"  sighed  the  governor,  "  it  is  wonderful 
what  a  man  can  endure !  You  used  to  take  wagon- 
loads  of  fish  to  Moscow,  Yegor  Ivanitch,  while  I  in 
my  time  was  at  the  war.  I  remember  one  extraor- 
dinary instance.   .   .   ." 

And  the  governor  described  how,  during  the  last 
Russo-Turkish  War,  one  frosty  night  the  division  in 
which  he  was  had  stood  in  the  snow  without  moving 
for  thirteen  hours  in  a  piercing  wind;  from  fear  of 
being  observed  the  division  did  not  light  a  fire,  nor 
make  a  sound  or  a  movement;  they  were  forbidden 
to  smoke.   .   .   . 

Reminiscences  followed.  The  governor  and  the 
mayor  grew  lively  and  good-humoured,  and,  inter- 
rupting each  other,  began  recalling  their  experiences. 
And  the  bishop  told  them  how,  when  he  was  serving 
in  Siberia,  he  had  travelled  in  a  sledge  drawn  by 
dogs;  how  one  day,  being  drowsy,  in  a  time  of  sharp 
frost  he  had  fallen  out  of  the  sledge  and  been  nearly 
frozen;  when  the  Tunguses  turned  back  and  found 
him  he  was  barely  alive.  Then,  as  by  common  agree- 
ment, the  old  men  suddenly  sank  into  silence,  sat 
side  by  side,  and  mused. 

"Ech!  "  whispered  the  mayor;  "you'd  think  it 
would  be  time  to  forget,  but  when  you  look  at  the 
water-carriers,  at  the  schoolboys,  at  the  convicts 
in  their  wretched  gowns,  it  brings  it  all  back  !  Why, 
only  take  those  musicians  who  are  playing  now. 
I'll  be  bound,  there  is  a  pain  in  their  hearts;  a  pinch 
at  their  stomachs,  and  their  trumpets  are  freezing 
to  their  lips.  .  .  .  They  play  and  think:  'Holy 
Mother!  we  have  another  three  hours  to  sit  here  in 
the  cold.'  " 


Frost  217 

The  old  men  sank  into  thought.  They  thought 
of  that  in  man  which  is  higher  than  good  birth, 
higher  than  rank  and  wealth  and  learning,  of  that 
which  brings  the  lowest  beggar  near  to  God:  of  the 
helplessness  of  man,  of  his  sufferings  and  his 
patience.   .   .  . 

Meanwhile  the  air  was  turning  blue  .  .  .  the 
door  opened  and  two  waiters  from  Savatin's 
walked  in,  carrying  trays  and  a  big  muffled  teapot. 
When  the  glasses  had  been  filled  and  there  was  a 
strong  smell  of  cinnamon  and  clove  in  the  air,  the 
door  opened  again,  and  there  came  into  the  pavilion 
a  beardless  young  policeman  whose  nose  was  crim- 
son, and  who  was  covered  all  over  with  frost;  he 
went  up  to  the  governor,  and,  saluting,  said:  "  Her 
Excellency  told  me  to  inform  you  that  she  has  gone 
home." 

Looking  at  the  way  the  policeman  put  his  stiff, 
frozen  fingers  to  his  cap,  looking  at  his  nose,  his 
lustreless  eyes,  and  his  hood  covered  with  white  frost 
near  the  mouth,  they  all  for  some  reason  felt  that 
this  policeman's  heart  must  be  aching,  that  his 
stomach  must  feel  pinched,  and  his  soul  numb.  .  .  . 

"  I  say,"  said  the  governor  hesitatingly,  "  have  a 
drink  of  mulled  wine !  " 

"  It's  all  right  .  .  .  it's  all  right !  Drink  it  up  !  " 
the  mayor  urged  him,  gesticulating;  "  don't  be 
shy!" 

The  policeman  took  the  glass  in  both  hands, 
moved  aside,  and,  trying  to  drink  without  making 
any  sound,  began  discreetly  sipping  from  the  glass. 
He  drank  and  was  overwhelmed  with  embarrass- 
ment while  the  old  men  looked  at  him  in  silence,  and 


218  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

they  all  fancied  that  the  pain  was  leaving  the  young 
policeman's  heart,  and  that  his  soul  was  thawing. 
The  governor  heaved  a  sigh. 

11  It's  time  we  were  at  home,"  he  said,  getting 
up.  "  Good-bye !  I  say,"  he  added,  addressing 
the  policeman,  "  tell  the  musicians  there  to  .  .  . 
leave  off  playing,  and  ask  Pavel  Semyonovitch  from 
me  to  see  they  are  given  .   .   .  beer  or  vodka." 

The  governor  and  the  bishop  said  good-bye  to 
the  mayor  and  went  out  of  the  pavilion. 

Yegor  Ivanitch  attacked  the  mulled  wine,  and 
before  the  policeman  had  finished  his  glass  suc- 
ceeded in  telling  him  a  great  many  interesting  things. 
He  could  not  be  silent. 


A  SLANDER 


A  SLANDER 

Sergey  Kapitonitch  Ahineev,  the  writing-master, 
was  marrying  his  daughter  Natalya  to  the  teacher 
of  history  and  geography.  The  wedding  festivities 
were  going  off  most  successfully.  In  the  drawing- 
room  there  was  singing,  playing,  and  dancing. 
Waiters  hired  from  the  club  were  flitting  distractedly 
about  the  rooms,  dressed  in  black  swallow-tails  and 
dirty  white  ties.  There  was  a  continual  hubbub  and 
din  of  conversation.  Sitting  side  by  side  on  the  sofa, 
the  teacher  of  mathematics,  Tarantulov,  the  French 
teacher,  Pasdequoi,  and  the  junior  assessor  of  taxes, 
Mzda,  were  talking  hurriedly  and  interrupting  one 
another  as  they  described  to  the  guests  cases  of 
persons  being  buried  alive,  and  gave  their  opinions 
on  spiritualism.  None  of  them  believed  in  spiritual- 
ism, but  all  admitted  that  there  were  many  things 
in  this  world  which  would  always  be  beyond  the 
mind  of  man.  In  the  next  room  the  literature  mas- 
ter, Dodonsky,  was  explaining  to  the  visitors  the 
cases  in  which  a  sentry  has  the  right  to  fire  on 
passers-by.  The  subjects,  as  you  perceive,  were 
alarming,  but  very  agreeable.  Persons  whose  social 
position  precluded  them  from  entering  were  looking 
in  at  the  windows  from  the  yard. 

Just  at  midnight  the  master  of  the  house  went 
into  the  kitchen  to  see  whether  everything  was 
ready  for  supper.    The  kitchen  from  floor  to  ceiling 

221 


222  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

was  filled  with  fumes  composed  of  goose,  duck,  and 
many  other  odours.  On  two  tables  the  accessories, 
the  drinks  and  light  refreshments,  were  set  out  in 
artistic  disorder.  The  cook,  Marfa,  a  red-faced 
woman,  whose  figure  was  like  a  barrel  with  a  belt 
round  it,  was  bustling  about  the  tables. 

"  Show  me  the  sturgeon,  Marfa,"  said  Ahineev, 
rubbing  his  hands  and  licking  his  lips.  "  What  a 
perfume,  what  a  miasma !  I  could  eat  up  the  whole 
kitchen.     Come,  show  me  the  sturgeon." 

Marfa  went  up  to  one  of  the  benches  and  cau- 
tiously lifted  a  piece  of  greasy  newspaper.  Under 
the  paper  on  an  immense  dish  there  reposed  a  huge 
sturgeon,  masked  in  jelly  and  decorated  with  capers, 
olives,  and  carrots.  Ahineev  gazed  at  the  sturgeon 
and  gasped.  His  face  beamed,  he  turned  his  eyes 
up.  He  bent  down  and  with  his  lips  emitted  the 
sound  of  an  ungreased  wheel.  After  standing  a 
moment  he  snapped  his  fingers  with  delight,  and 
once  more  smacked  his  lips. 

"Ah-ah!  the  sound  of  a  passionate  kiss.  .  .  . 
Who  is  it  you're  kissing  out  there,  little  Marfa?" 
came  a  voice  from  the  next  room,  and  in  the  door- 
way there  appeared  the  cropped  head  of  the  assis- 
tant usher  Vankin.  "Who  is  it?  A-a-h!  .  .  . 
Delighted  to  meet  you!  Sergey  Kapitonitch! 
You're  a  fine  grandfather,  I  must  say!  Tete-a-tete 
with  the  fair  sex — tette !  " 

"  I'm  not  kissing,"  said  Ahineev  in  confusion. 
"Who  told  you  so,  you  fool?  I  was  only  ...  I 
smacked  my  lips  ...  in  reference  to  ...  as  an 
indication  of  .  .  .  pleasure  ...  at  the  sight  of  the 
fish." 


A  Slander  223 

"  Tell  that  to  the  marines !  "  The  intrusive  face 
vanished,  wearing  a  broad  grin. 

Ahineev  flushed. 

"  Hang  it!  "  he  thought,  "  the  beast  will  go  now 
and  talk  scandal.  He'll  disgrace  me  to  all  the  town, 
the  brute." 

Ahineev  went  timidly  into  the  drawing-room  and 
looked  stealthily  round  for  Vankin.  Vankin  was 
standing  by  the  piano,  and,  bending  down  with  a 
jaunty  air,  was  whispering  something  to  the  inspec- 
tor's sister-in-law,  who  was  laughing. 

"  Talking  about  me  !  "  thought  Ahineev.  "  About 
me,  blast  him !  And  she  believes  it  .  .  .  believes 
it!  She  laughs!  Mercy  on  us!  No,  I  can't  let  it 
pass  ...  I  can't.  I  must  do  something  to  prevent 
his  being  believed.  .  .  .  I'll  speak  to  them  all,  and 
he'll  be  shown  up  for  a  fool  and  a  gossip." 

Ahineev  scratched  his  head,  and  still  overcome 
with  embarrassment,  went  up  to  Pasdequoi. 

"  I've  just  been  in  the  kitchen  to  see  after  the 
supper,"  he  said  to  the  Frenchman.  "  I  know  you 
are  fond  of  fish,  and  I've  a  sturgeon,  my  dear  fellow, 
beyond  everything!  A  yard  and  a  half  long!  Ha, 
ha,  ha !  And,  by  the  way  ...  I  was  just  forget- 
ting. ...  In  the  kitchen  just  now,  with  that  stur- 
geon .  .  .  quite  a  little  story!  I  went  into  the 
kitchen  just  now  and  wanted  to  look  at  the  supper 
dishes.  I  looked  at  the  sturgeon  and  I  smacked  my 
lips  with  relish  ...  at  the  piquancy  of  it.  And 
at  the  very  moment  that  fool  Vankin  came  in  and 
said:  .  .  .  'Ha,  ha,  ha!  ...  So  you're  kissing 
here!'  Kissing  Marfa,  the  cook!  What  a  thing 
to  imagine,   silly  fool !     The  woman  is   a  perfect 


224  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

fright,  like  all  the  beasts  put  together,  and  he  talks 
about  kissing!    Queer  fish!" 

"  Who's  a  queer  fish?  "  asked  Tarantulov,  coming 
up. 

"Why  he,  over  there — Vankin!  I  went  into 
the  kitchen  .   .   ." 

And  he  told  the  story  of  Vankin.  ".  .  .  He 
amused  me,  queer  fish!  I'd  rather  kiss  a  dog  than 
Marfa,  if  you  ask  me,"  added  Ahineev.  He  looked 
round  and  saw  behind  him  Mzda. 

"  We  are  talking  of  Vankin,"  he  said.  "  Queer 
fish,  he  is!  He  went  into  the  kitchen,  saw  me  be- 
side Marfa,  and  began  inventing  all  sorts  of  silly 
stories.  '  Why  are  you  kissing?  '  says  he.  He  must 
have  had  a  drop  too  much.  '  And  I'd  rather  kiss 
a  turkeycock  than  Marfa,'  I  said.  '  And  I've  a  wife 
of  my  own,  you  fool,'  said  I.     He  did  amuse  me!  " 

"Who  amused  you?"  asked  the  priest  who 
taught  Scripture  in  the  school,  going  up  to  Ahineev. 

"  Vankin.  I  was  standing  in  the  kitchen,  you 
know,  looking  at  the  sturgeon.   .   .   ." 

And  so  on.  Within  half  an  hour  or  so  all  the 
guests  knew  the  incident  of  the  sturgeon  and  Vankin. 

"Let  him  tell  away  now!"  thought  Ahineev, 
rubbing  his  hands,  "let  him!  He'll  begin  telling 
his  story  and  they'll  say  to  him  at  once,  '  Enough  of 
your  nonsense,  you  fool,  we  know  all  about  it!  '  " 

And  Ahineev  was  so  relieved  that  in  his  joy  he 
drank  four  glasses  too  many.  After  escorting  the 
young  people  to  their  room  he  went  to  bed  and 
slept  like  an  innocent  babe,  and  next  day  he  thought 
no  more  of  the  incident  with  the  sturgeon.  But, 
alas!   man  proposes,   but   God   disposes.      An  evil 


A  Slander  225 

tongue  did  its  evil  work,  and  Ahineev's  strategy  was 
of  no  avail.  Just  a  week  later — to  be  precise,  on 
Wednesday  after  the  third  lesson — when  Ahineev 
was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  teachers'  room, 
holding  forth  on  the  vicious  propensities  of  a  boy 
called  Visekin,  the  head  master  went  up  to  him  and 
drew  him  aside: 

"  Look  here,  Sergey  Kapitonitch,"  said  the  head 
master,  "  you  must  excuse  me.  .  .  .  It's  not  my 
business;  but  all  the  same  I  must  make  you  realize. 
.  .  .  It's  my  duty.  You  see,  there  are  rumours 
that  you  are  living  with  that  .  .  .  cook.  .  .  .  It's 
nothing  to  do  with  me,  but  .  .  .  Live  with  her, 
kiss  her  ...  as  you  please,  but  don't  let  it  be  so 
public,  please.  I  entreat  you !  Don't  forget  that 
you're  a  schoolmaster." 

Ahineev  turned  cold  and  faint.  He  went  home 
like  a  man  stung  by  a  whole  swarm  of  bees,  like  a 
man  scalded  with  boiling  water.  As  he  walked 
home,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  whole  town  was 
looking  at  him  as  though  he  were  smeared  with 
pitch.    At  home  fresh  trouble  awaited  him. 

"  Why  aren't  you  gobbling  up  your  food  as 
usual?  "  his  wife  asked  him  at  dinner.  "  What  are 
you  so  pensive  about?  Brooding  over  your  amours? 
Pining  for  your  slut  of  a  Marfa?  I  know  all  about 
it,  Mahommedan!  Kind  friends  have  opened  my 
eyes!     O-o-o !   .   .   .  you  savage!" 

And  she  slapped  him  in  the  face.  He  got  up 
from  the  table,  not  feeling  the  earth  under  his  feet, 
and  without  his  hat  or  his  coat,  made  his  way  to 
Vankin.     He  found  him  at  home. 

"You  scoundrel!"  was  how  he  addressed  him. 


226  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Why  have  you  covered  me  with  mud  before  all 
the  town?  Why  did  you  set  this  slander  going 
about  me?  " 

11  WThat  slander?    What  are  you  talking  about?  " 

"Who  was  it  gossiped  of  my  kissing  Marfa? 
Wasn't  it  you?  Tell  me  that.  Wasn't  it  you,  you 
brigand?  " 

Vankin  blinked  and  twitched  in  every  fibre  of  his 
battered  countenance,  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ikon 
and  articulated,  "  God  blast  me !  Strike  me  blind 
and  lay  me  out,  if  I  said  a  single  word  about  you ! 
May  I  be  left  without  house  or  home,  may  I  be 
stricken  with  worse  than  cholera !  " 

Vankin's  sincerity  did  not  admit  of  doubt.  It 
was  evidently  not  he  who  was  the  author  of  the 
slander. 

"  But  who,  then,  who?  "  Ahineev  wondered,  go- 
ing over  all  his  acquaintances  in  his  mind  and  beat- 
ing himself  on  the  breast.     "  Who,  then?  " 

Who,  then?    We,  too,  ask  the  reader. 


MINDS  IN  FERMENT 


MINDS  IN  FERMENT 

(from  the  annals  of  a  town) 

The  earth  was  like  an  oven.  The  afternoon  sun 
blazed  with  such  energy  that  even  the  thermometer 
hanging  in  the  excise  officer's  room  lost  its  head: 
it  ran  up  to  112.5  and  stopped  there,  irresolute. 
The  inhabitants  streamed  with  perspiration  like 
overdriven  horses,  and  were  too  lazy  to  mop  their 
faces. 

Two  of  the  inhabitants  were  walking  along  the 
market-place  in  front  of  the  closely  shuttered 
houses.  One  was  Pptcheshihin,  the  local  treasury 
clerk,  and  the  other  was  Optimov,  the  agent,  for 
many  years  a  correspondent  of  the  Son  of  the  Father- 
land  newspaper.  They  walked  in  silence,  speech- 
less from  the  heat.  Optimov  felt  tempted  to  find 
fault  with  the  local  authorities  for  the  dust  and 
disorder  of  the  market-place,  but,  aware  of  the 
peace-loving  disposition  and  moderate  views  of  his 
companion,  he  said  nothing. 

In  the  middle  of  the  market-place  Potcheshihin 
suddenly  halted  and  began  gazing  into  the  sky. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at?  " 

"  Those  starlings  that  flew  up.  I  wonder  where 
they  have  settled.  Clouds  and  clouds  of  them. 
...  If  one  were  to  go  and  take  a  shot  at  them, 
and  if  one  were  to  pick  them  up  .  .  .  and  if  .  .  . 

229 


230  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

They  have  settled  in  the  Father  Prebendary's 
garden!  " 

"Oh  no!  They  are  not  in  the  Father  Preben- 
dary's, they  are  in  the  Father  Deacon's.  If  you  did 
have  a  shot  at  them  from  here  you  wouldn't  kill 
anything.  Fine  shot  won't  carry  so  far;  it  loses  its 
force.  And  why  should  you  kill  them,  anyway? 
They're  birds  destructive  of  the  fruit,  that's  true; 
still,  they're  fowls  of  the  air,  works  of  the  Lord. 
The  starling  sings,  you  know.  .  .  .  And  what  does 
it  sing,  pray?  A  song  of  praise.  .  .  .  'AH  ye 
fowls  of  the  air,  praise  ye  the  Lord.'  No.  I  do 
believe  they  have  settled  in  the  Father  Prebendary's 
garden." 

Three  old  pilgrim  women,  wearing  bark  shoes 
and  carrying  wallets,  passed  noiselessly  by  the 
speakers.  Looking  enquiringly  at  the  gentlemen 
who  were  for  some  unknown  reason  staring  at  the 
Father  Prebendary's  house,  they  slackened  their 
pace,  and  when  they  were  a  few  yards  off  stopped, 
glanced  at  the  friends  once  more,  and  then  fell  to 
gazing  at  the  house  themselves. 

"Yes,  you  were  right;  they  have  settled  in  the 
Father  Prebendary's,"  said  Optimov.  "  His  cher- 
ries are  ripe  now,  so  they  have  gone  there  to  peck 
them." 

From  the  garden  gate  emerged  the  Father  Pre- 
bendary himself,  accompanied  by  the  sexton.  See- 
ing the  attention  directed  upon  his  abode  and  won- 
dering what  people  were  staring  at,  he  stopped, 
and  he,  too,  as  well  as  the  sexton,  began  looking 
upwards  to  find  out. 


Minds  in  Ferment  231 

"  The  father  is  going  to  a  service  somewhere,  I 
suppose,"  said  Potcheshihin.  "  The  Lord  be  his 
succour!  " 

Some  workmen  from  Purov's  factory,  who  had 
been  bathing  in  the  river,  passed  between  the  friends 
and  the  priests  Seeing  the  latter  absorbed  in  con- 
templation of  the  heavens  and  the  pilgrim  women, 
too,  standing  motionless  with  their  eyes  turned  up- 
wards, they  stood  still  and  stared  in  the  same 
direction. 

A  small  boy  leading  a  blind  beggar  and  a  peasant, 
carrying  a  tub  of  stinking  fish  to  throw  into  the 
market-place,  did  the  same. 

"  There  must  be  something  the  matter,  I  should 
think,"  said  Potcheshihin,  "  a  fire  or  something. 
But  there's  no  sign  of  smoke  anywhere.  Hey! 
Kuzma !  "  he  shouted  to  the  peasant,  "what's  the 
matter?  " 

The  peasant  made  some  reply,  but  Potcheshihin 
and  Optimov  did  not  catch  it.  Sleepy-looking  shop- 
men made  their  appearance  at  the  doors  of  all  the 
shops.  Some  plasterers  at  work  on  a  warehouse 
near  left  their  ladders  and  joined  the  workmen. 

The  fireman,  who  was  describing  circles  with  his 
bare  feet,  on  the  watch-tower,  halted,  and,  after 
looking  steadily  at  them  for  a  few  minutes,  came 
down.  The  watch-tower  was  left  deserted.  This 
seemed  suspicious. 

"  There  must  be  a  fire  somewhere.  Don't  shove 
me  !     You  damned  swine  !  " 

"Where  do  you  see  the  fire?  What  fire?  Pass 
on,  gentlemen !    I  ask  you  civilly !  " 

"  It  must  be  a  fire  indoors!  " 


232  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Asks  us  civilly  and  keeps  poking  with  his  el- 
bows. Keep  your  hands  to  yourself!  Though  you 
are  a  head  constable,  you  have  no  sort  of  right  to 
make  free  with  your  fists!  " 

"  He's  trodden  on  my  corn !  Ah !  I'll  crush 
you!" 

"Crushed?  Who's  crushed?  Lads!  a  man's 
been  crushed!  " 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this  crowd?  What  do 
you  want?  " 

"  A  man's  been  crushed,  please  your  honour!  " 

"Where?  Pass  on!  I  ask  you  civilly!  I  ask 
you  civilly,  you  blockheads!  " 

"  You  may  shove  a  peasant,  but  you  daren't  touch 
a  gentleman!     Hands  off!  " 

"  Did  you  ever  know  such  people  ?  There's  no 
doing  anything  with  them  by  fair  words,  the  devils ! 
Sidorov,  run  for  Akim  Danilitch!  Look  sharp! 
It'll  be  the  worse  for  you,  gentlemen  !  Akim  Danil- 
itch is  coming,  and  he'll  give  it  to  you!  You  here, 
Parfen?  A  blind  man,  and  at  his  age  too!  Can't 
see,  but  he  must  be  like  other  people  and  won't  do 
what  he's  told.    Smirnov,  put  his  name  down  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir !  And  shall  I  write  down  the  men  from 
Purov's?  That  man  there  with  the  swollen  cheek, 
he's  from  Purov's  works." 

"  Don't  put  down  the  men  from  Purov's.  It's 
Purov's  birthday  to-morrow." 

The  starlings  rose  in  a  black  cloud  from  the 
Father  Prebendary's  garden,  but  Potcheshihin  and 
Optimov  did  not  notice  them.  They  stood  staring 
into  the  air,  wondering  what  could  have  attracted 
such  a  crowd,  and  what  it  was  looking  at. 


Minds  in  Ferment  233 

Akim  Danilitch  appeared.  Still  munching  and 
wiping  his  lips,  he  cut  his  way  into  the  crowd, 
bellowing: 

"  Firemen,  be  ready !  Disperse!  Mr.  Optimov, 
disperse,  or  it'll  be  the  worse  for  you!  Instead  of 
writing  all  kinds  of  things  about  decent  people  in 
the  papers,  you  had  better  try  to  behave  yourself 
more  conformably!  No  good  ever  comes  of  read- 
ing the  papers!  " 

"  Kindly  refrain  from  reflections  upon  litera- 
ture !  "  cried  Optimov  hotly.  "  I  am  a  literary  man, 
and  I  will  allow  no  one  to  make  reflections  upon 
literature !  though,  as  is  the  duty  of  a  citizen,  I 
respect  you  as  a  father  and  benefactor !  " 

"  Firemen,  turn  the  hose  on  them !  " 

"  There's  no  water,  please  your  honour!  " 

"  Don't  answer  me  !  Go  and  get  some !  Look 
sharp !  " 

"  We've  nothing  to  get  it  in,  your  honour.  The 
major  has  taken  the  fire-brigade  horses  to  drive  his 
aunt  to  the  station." 

"  Disperse  !  Stand  back,  damnation  take  you ! 
.  .  .  Is  that  to  your  taste?  Put  him  down,  the 
devil!" 

"  I've  lost  my  pencil,  please  your  honour!  " 

The  crowd  grew  larger  and  larger.  There  is  no 
telling  what  proportions  it  might  have  reached  if  the 
new  organ  just  arrived  from  Moscow  had  not  for- 
tunately begun  playing  in  the  tavern  close  by.  Hear- 
ing their  favourite  tune,  the  crowd  gasped  and 
rushed  off  to  the  tavern.  So  nobody  ever  knew  why 
the  crowd  had  assembled,  and  Potcheshihin  and 
Optimov  had  by  now  forgotten  the  existence  of  the 


234  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

starlings  who  were  innocently  responsible  for  the 
proceedings. 

An  hour  later  the  town  was  still  and  silent  again, 
and  only  a  solitary  figure  was  to  be  seen — the  fire- 
man pacing  round  and  round  on  the  watch-tower. 

The  same  evening  Akim  Danilitch  sat  in  the 
grocer's  shop  drinking  limonade  gaseuse  and 
brandy,  and  writing: 

"  In  addition  to  the  official  report,  I  venture, 
your  Excellency,  to  append  a  few  supplementary 
observations  of  my  own.  Father  and  benefactor! 
In  very  truth,  but  for  the  prayers  of  your  virtuous 
spouse  in  her  salubrious  villa  near  our  town,  there's 
no  knowing  what  might  not  have  come  to  pass. 
What  I  have  been  through  to-day  I  can  find  no 
words  to  express.  The  efficiency  of  Krushensky 
and  of  the  major  of  the  fire  brigade  are  beyond  all 
praise !  I  am  proud  of  such  devoted  servants  of 
our  country!  As  for  me,  I  did  all  that  a  weak  man 
could  do,  whose  only  desire  is  the  welfare  of  his 
neighbour;  and  sitting  now  in  the  bosom  of  my 
family,  with  tears  in  my  eyes  I  thank  Him  Who 
spared  us  bloodshed!  In  absence  of  evidence,  the 
guilty  parties  remain  in  custody,  but  I  propose  to 
release  them  in  a  week  or  so.  It  was  their  ignorance 
that  led  them  astray!  " 


GONE  ASTRAY 


GONE  ASTRAY 

A  country  village  wrapped  in  the  darkness  of 
night.  One  o'clock  strikes  from  the  belfry.  Two 
lawyers,  called  Kozyavkin  and  Laev,  both  in  the 
best  of  spirits  and  a  little  unsteady  on  their  legs, 
come  out  of  the  wood  and  turn  towards  the  cottages. 

"  Well,  thank  God,  we've  arrived,"  says  Kozyav- 
kin, drawing  a  deep  breath.  "  Tramping  four  miles 
from  the  station  in  our  condition  is  a  feat.  I  am 
fearfully  done  up !  And,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
not  a  fly  to  be  seen." 

"  Petya,  my  dear  fellow.  ...  I  can't.  ...  I 
feel  like  dying  if  I'm  not  in  bed  in  five  minutes." 

"  In  bed !  Don't  you  think  it,  my  boy !  First 
we'll  have  supper  and  a  glass  of  red  wine,  and  then 
you  can  go  to  bed.  Verotchka  and  I  will  wake  you 
up.  .  .  .  Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  it's  a  fine  thing  to 
be  married!  You  don't  understand  it,  you  cold- 
hearted  wretch!  I  shall  be  home  in  a  minute,  worn 
out  and  exhausted.  ...  A  loving  wife  will  wel- 
come me,  give  me  some  tea  and  something  to  eat, 
and  repay  me  for  my  hard  work  and  my  love  with 
such  a  fond  and  loving  look  out  of  her  darling  black 
eyes  that  I  shall  forget  how  tired  I  am,  and  forget 
the  burglary  and  the  law  courts  and  the  appeal 
division.   .   .   .   It's  glorious!  " 

"  Yes — I  say,  I  feel  as  though  my  legs  were 
237 


238  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

dropping  off,  I  can  scarcely  get  along.  ...  I  am 
frightfully  thirsty.   .   .   ." 

"  Well,  here  we  are  at  home." 

The  friends  go  up  to  one  of  the  cottages,  and 
stand  still  under  the  nearest  window. 

"  It's  a  jolly  cottage,"  said  Kozyavkin.  "  You 
will  see  to-morrow  what  views  we  have !  There's 
no  light  in  the  windows.  Verotchka  must  have  gone 
to  bed,  then;  she  must  have  got  tired  of  sitting  up. 
She's  in  bed,  and  must  be  worrying  at  my  not  having 
turned  up."  (He  pushes  the  window  with  his  stick, 
and  it  opens.)  "Plucky  girl!  She  goes  to  bed 
without  bolting  the  window."  (He  takes  off  his 
cape  and  flings  it  with  his  portfolio  in  at  the  win- 
dow.) "I  am  hot!  Let  us  strike  up  a  serenade 
and  make  her  laugh!  "  (He  sings.)  "  The  moon 
floats  in  the  midnight  sky.  .  .  .  Faintly  stir  the 
tender  breezes.  .  .  .  Faintly  rustle  in  the  tree- 
tops.  .  .  .  Sing,  sing,  Alyosha !  Verotchka,  shall 
we  sing  you  Schubert's  Serenade?  "     (He  sings.) 

His  performance  is  cut  short  by  a  sudden  fit  of 
coughing.  "Tphoo!  Verotchka,  tell  Aksinya  to 
unlock  the  gate  for  us!"  (A  pause.)  "Ve- 
rotchka! don't  be  lazy,  get  up,  darling!"  (He 
stands  on  a  stone  and  looks  in  at  the  window.) 
"  Verotchka,  my  dumpling;  Verotchka,  my  poppet 
.  .  .  my  little  angel,  my  wife  beyond  compare,  get 
up  and  tell  Aksinya  to  unlock  the  gate  for  us !  You 
are  not  asleep,  you  know.  Little  wife,  we  are  really 
so  done  up  and  exhausted  that  we're  not  in  the  mood 
for  jokes.  We've  trudged  all  the  way  from  the 
station!  Don't  you  hear?  Ah,  hang  it  all !  "  (He 
makes  an  effort  to  climb  up  to  the  window  and  falls 


Gone  Astray  239 

down.)  "You  know  this  isn't  a  nice  trick  to  play 
on  a  visitor!  I  see  you  are  just  as  great  a  school- 
girl as  ever,  Vera,  you  are  always  up  to  mischief!  " 

"  Perhaps  Vera  Stepanovna  is  asleep,"  says  Laev. 

"  She  isn't  asleep !  I  bet  she  wants  me  to  make 
an  outcry  and  wake  up  the  whole  neighbourhood. 
I'm  beginning  to  get  cross,  Vera !  Ach,  damn  it 
all!  Give  me  a  leg  up,  Alyosha;  I'll  get  in.  You 
are  a  naughty  girl,  nothing  but  a  regular  schoolgirl. 
.  .  .  Give  me  a  hoist." 

Puffing  and  panting,  Laev  gives  him  a  leg  up,  and 
Kozyavkin  climbs  in  at  the  window  and  vanishes 
into  the  darkness  within. 

"  Vera !  "  Laev  hears  a  minute  later,  "  where  are 
you?  .  .  .  D — damnation!  Tphoo !  I've  put  my 
hand  into  something!     Tphoo!" 

There  is  a  rustling  sound,  a  flapping  of  wings,  and 
the  desperate  cackling  of  a  fowl. 

"  A  nice  state  of  things,"  Laev  hears.  "  Vera, 
where  on  earth  did  these  chickens  come  from? 
Why,  the  devil,  there's  no  end  of  them !  There's 
a  basket  with  a  turkey  in  it.  .  .  .  It  pecks,  the 
nasty  creature." 

Two  hens  fly  out  of  the  window,  and  cackling  at 
the  top  of  their  voices,  flutter  down  the  village 
street. 

"  Alyosha,  we've  made  a  mistake  !  "  says  Kozyav- 
kin in  a  lachrymose  voice.  "  There  are  a  lot  of 
hens  here.  ...  I  must  have  mistaken  the  house. 
Confound  you,  you  are  all  over  the  place,  you  cursed 
brutes!  " 

"  Well,  then,  make  haste  and  come  down.  Do 
you  hear?    I  am  dying  of  thirst!  " 


240  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

11  In  a  minute.  ...  I  am  looking  for  my  cape 
and  portfolio." 

"  Light  a  match." 

"  The  matches  are  in  the  cape.  ...  I  was  a 
crazy  idiot  to  get  into  this  place.  The  cottages  are 
exactly  alike;  the  devil  himself  couldn't  tell  them 
apart  in  the  dark.  Aie,  the  turkey's  pecked  my 
cheek,  nasty  creature !  " 

"  Make  haste  and  get  out  or  they'll  think  we  are 
stealing  the  chickens." 

"  In  a  minute.  ...  I  can't  find  my  cape  any- 
where. .  .  .  There  are  lots  of  old  rags  here,  and 
I  can't  tell  where  the  cape  is.    Throw  me  a  match." 

"  I  haven't  any." 

"  We  are  in  a  hole,  I  must  say !  What  am  I  to 
do?  I  can't  go  without  my  cape  and  my  portfolio. 
I  must  find  them." 

"  I  can't  understand  a  man's  not  knowing  his  own 
cottage,"  says  Laev  indignantly.  "  Drunken  beast. 
...  If  I'd  known  I  was  in  for  this  sort  of  thing 
I  would  never  have  come  with  you.  I  should  have 
been  at  home  and  fast  asleep  by  now,  and  a  nice  fix 
I'm  in  here.  .  .  .  I'm  fearfully  done  up  and 
thirsty,  and  my  head  is  going  round." 

"  In  a  minute,  in  a  minute.  .  .  .  You  won't 
expire." 

A  big  cock  flies  crowing  over  Laev's  head.  Laev 
heaves  a  deep  sigh,  and  with  a  hopeless  gesture  sits 
down  on  a  stone.  He  is  beset  with  a  burning  thirst, 
his  eyes  are  closing,  his  head  drops  forward.  .  .  . 
Five  minutes  pass,  ten,  twenty,  and  Kozyavkin  is 
still  busy  among  the  hens. 

"  Pctya,  will  you  be  long?  " 


Gone  Astray  241 

"  A  minute.  I  found  the  portfolio,  but  I  have 
lost  it  again." 

Laev  lays  his  head  on  his  fists,  and  closes  his  eyes. 
The  cackling  of  the  fowls  grows  louder  and  louder. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  empty  cottage  fly  out  of  the 
window  and  flutter  round  in  circles,  he  fancies,  like 
owls  over  his  head.  His  ears  ring  with  their  cackle, 
he  is  overwhelmed  with  terror. 

"  The  beast !  "  he  thinks.  "  He  invited  me  to 
stay,  promising  me  wine  and  junket,  and  then  he 
makes  me  walk  from  the  station  and  listen  to  these 
hens.   .   .   ." 

In  the  midst  of  his  indignation  his  chin  sinks  into 
his  collar,  he  lays  his  head  on  his  portfolio,  and 
gradually  subsides.  Weariness  gets  the  upper  hand 
and  he  begins  to  doze. 

"  I've  found  the  portfolio!  "  he  hears  Kozyavkin 
cry  triumphantly.  "  I  shall  find  the  cape  in  a 
minute  and  then  off  we  go !  " 

Then  through  his  sleep  he  hears  the  barking  of 
dogs.  First  one  dog  barks,  then  a  second,  and  a 
third.  .  .  .  And  the  barking  of  the  dogs  blends 
with  the  cackling  of  the  fowls  into  a  sort  of  savage 
music.  Someone  comes  up  to  Laev  and  asks  him 
something.  Then  he  hears  someone  climb  over  his 
head  into  the  window,  then  a  knocking  and  a  shout- 
ing. ...  A  woman  in  a  red  apron  stands  beside 
him  with  a  lantern  in  her  hand  and  asks  him  some- 
thing. 

"  You've  no  right  to  say  so,"  he  hears  Kozyav- 
kin's  voice.  "  I  am  a  lawyer,  a  bachelor  of  laws — 
Kozyavkin — here's  my  visiting  card." 

11  What  do  I  want  with  your  card?  "  says  some- 


24-  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

one  in  a  husky  bass.  "  You've  disturbed  all  my 
fowls,  you've  smashed  the  eggs !  Look,  what  you've 
done.  The  turkey  poults  were  to  have  come  out 
to-day  or  to-morrow,  and  you've  smashed  them. 
What's  the  use  of  your  giving  me  your  card,  sir?  " 

"How  dare  you  interfere  with  me!  No!  I 
won't  have  it!  " 

"  I  am  thirsty,"  thinks  Laev,  trying  to  open  his 
eyes,  and  he  feels  somebody  climb  down  from  the 
window  over  his  head. 

"  My  name  is  Kozyavkin!  I  have  a  cottage  here. 
Everyone  knows  me." 

"  We  don't  know  anyone  called  Kozyavkin." 

"What  are  you  saying?  Call  the  elder.  He 
knows  me." 

"  Don't  get  excited,  the  constable  will  be  here 
directly.  .  .  .  We  know  all  the  summer  visitors 
here,  but  I've  never  seen  you  in  my  life." 

"  I've  had  a  cottage  in  Rottendale  for  five  years." 

"  Whew!  Do  you  take  this  for  the  Dale?  This 
is  Sicklystead,  but  Rottendale  is  farther  to  the 
right,  beyond  the  match  factory.  It's  three  miles 
from  here." 

"Bless  my  soul!  Then  I've  taken  the  wrong 
turning!  " 

The  cries  of  men  and  fowls  mingle  with  the  bark- 
ing of  dogs,  and  the  voice  of  Kozyavkin  rises  above 
the  chaos  of  confused  sounds: 

"  You  shut  up !  I'll  pay.  I'll  show  you  whom 
you  have  to  deal  with!  " 

Little  by  little  the  voices  die  down.  Laev  feels 
himself  being  shaken  by  the  shoulder.  .  .  . 


AN  AVENGER 


AN  AVENGER 

Shortly  after  finding  his  wife  in  flagrante  delicto 
Fyodor  Fyodorovitch  Sigaev  was  standing  in 
Sehmuck  and  Co.'s,  the  gunsmiths,  selecting  a  suit- 
able revolver.  His  countenance  expressed  wrath, 
grief,  and  unalterable  determination. 

"  I  know  what  I  must  do,"  he  was  thinking. 
"  The  sanctities  of  the  home  are  outraged,  honour 
is  trampled  in  the  mud,  vice  is  triumphant,  and 
therefore  as  a  citizeru,and  a  man  of  honour  I  must 
be  their  avenger.  First  I  will  kill  her  and  her  lover 
and  then  myself."  "' 

He  had  not  yet  chosen  a  revolver  or  killed  any- 
one, but  already  in  imagination  he  saw  three  blood- 
stained corpses,  broken  skulls,  brains  oozing  from 
them,  the  commotion,  the  crowd  of  gaping  specta- 
tors, the  post-mortem.  .  .  .  With  the  malignant 
joy  of  an  insulted  man  he  pictured  the  horror  of  the 
relations  and  the  public,  the  agony  of  the  traitress, 
and  was  mentally  reading  leading  articles  on  the 
destruction  of  the  traditions  of  the  home. 

The  shopman,  a  sprightly  little  Frenchified  figure 
with  rounded  belly  and  white  waistcoat,  displayed 
the  revolvers,  and  smiling  respectfully  and  scraping 
with  his  little  feet  observed: 

"...  I  would  advise  you,  M'sieur,  to  take  this 
superb  revolver,  the  Smith  and  Wesson  pattern,  the 
last  word  in  the  science  of  firearms:  triple-action, 
with  ejector,  kills  at  six  hundred  paces,  central  sight. 

245 


246  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Let  me  draw  your  attention,  M'sieu,  to  the  beauty 
of  the  finish.  The  most  fashionable  system,  M'sieu. 
We  sell  a  dozen  every  day  for  burglars,  wolves,  and 
lovers.  Very  correct  and  powerful  action,  hits  at 
a  great  distance,  and  kills  wife  and  lover  with  one 
bullet.  As  for  suicide,  M'sieu,  I  don't  know  a 
better  pattern." 

The  shopman  pulled  and  cocked  the  trigger, 
breathed  on  the  barrel,  took  aim,  and  affected  to  be 
breathless  with  delight.  Looking  at  his  ecstatic 
countenance,  one  might  have  supposed  that  he 
would  readily  have  put  a  bullet  through  his  brains 
if  he  had  only  possessed  a  revolver  of  such  a  superb 
pattern  as  a  Smith-Wesson. 

"  And  what  price?  "  asked  Sigaev. 
"  Forty-five  roubles,  M'sieu." 
"Mm!  .  .  .  that's  too  dear  for  me." 
"In  that  case,  M'sieu,  let  me  offer  you  another 
make,   somewhat  cheaper.      Here,   if  you'll  kindly 
look,  we  have  an  immense  choice,  at  all  prices.   .   .   . 
Here,  for  instance,  this  revolver  of  the  Lefaucher 
pattern  costs  only  eighteen  roubles,  but  .   .   ."   (the 
shopman  pursed  up  his  face  contemptuously)   ".   .  . 
but,  M'sieu,  it's  an  old-fashioned  make.     They  are 
only  bought  by  hysterical  ladies   or   the  mentally 
deficient.     To  commit  suicide  or  shoot  one's  wife 
with  a  Lefaucher  revolver  is  considered  bad  form 
nowadays.    Smith-Wesson  is  the  only  pattern  that's 
correct  style." 

"  I  don't  want  to  shoot  myself  or  to  kill  anyone," 
said  Sigaev,  lying  sullenly.  "  I  am  buying  it  simply 
for  a  country  cottage  ...  to  frighten  away 
burglars.   .  .  ." 


An  Avenger  247 

"  That's  not  our  business,  what  object  you  have 
in  buying  it."  The  shopman  smiled,  dropping  his 
eyes  discreetly.  "  If  we  were  to  investigate  the 
object  in  each  case,  M'sieu,  we  should  have  to  close 
our  shop.  To  frighten  burglars  Lefaucher  is  not 
a  suitable  pattern,  M'sieu,  for  it  goes  off  with  a 
faint,  muffled  sound.  I  would  suggest  Mortimer's, 
the  so-called  duelling  pistol.   .   .   ." 

"Shouldn't  I  challenge  him  to  a  duel?"  flashed 
through  Sigaev's  mind.  "  It's  doing  him  too  much 
honour,  though.  .  .  .  Beasts  like  that  are  killed 
like  dogs.  .  .  ." 

The  shopman,  swaying  gracefully  and  tripping  to 
and  fro  on  his  little  feet,  still  smiling  and  chatter- 
ing, displayed  before  him  a  heap  of  revolvers.  The 
most  inviting  and  impressive  of  all  was  the  Smith 
and  Wesson's.  Sigaev  picked  up  a  pistol  of  that 
pattern,  gazed  blankly  at  it,  and  sank  into  brooding. 
His  imagination  pictured  how  he  would  blow  out 
their  brains,  how  blood  would  flow  in  streams  over 
the  rug  and  the  parquet,  how  the  traitress's  legs 
would  twitch  in  her  last  agony.  .  .  .  But  that  was 
not  enough  for  his  indignant  soul.  The  picture  of 
blood,  wailing,  and  horror  did  not  satisfy  him.  He 
must  think  of  something  more  terrible. 

"  I  know!  I'll  kill  myself  and  him,"  he  thought, 
"  but  I'll  leave  her  alive.  Let  her  pine  away  from 
the  stings  of  conscience  and  the  contempt  of  all 
surrounding  her.  For  a  sensitive  nature  like  hers 
that  will  be  far  more  agonizing  than  death." 

And  he  imagined  his  own  funeral:  he,  the  injured 
husband,  lies  in  his  coffin  with  a  gentle  smile  on  his 
lips,  and  she,  pale,  tortured  by  remorse,  follows  the 


248  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

coffin  like  a  Niobe,  not  knowing  where  to  hide  her- 
self to  escape  from  the  withering,  contemptuous 
looks  cast  upon  her  by  the  indignant  crowd. 

"  I  see,  M'sieu,  that  you  like  the  Smith  and  Wes- 
son make,"  the  shopman  broke  in  upon  his  brood- 
ings.  "  If  you  think  it  too  dear,  very  well,  I'll 
knock  off  five  roubles.  .  .  .  But  we  have  other 
makes,  cheaper." 

The  little  Frenchified  figure  turned  gracefully  and 
took  down  another  dozen  cases  of  revolvers  from 
the  shelf. 

"  Here,  M'sieu,  price  thirty  roubles.  That's  not 
expensive,  especially  as  the  rate  of  exchange  has 
dropped  terribly  and  the  Customs  duties  are  rising 
every  hour.  M'sieu,  I  vow  I  am  a  Conservative, 
but  even  I  am  beginning  to  murmur.  Why,  with 
the  rate  of  exchange  and  the  Customs  tariff,  only 
the  rich  can  purchase  firearms.  There's  nothing 
left  for  the  poor  but  Tula  weapons  and  phosphorus 
matches,  and  Tula  weapons  are  a  misery!  You 
may  aim  at  your  wife  with  a  Tula  revolver  and 
shoot  yourself  through  the  shoulder-blade." 

Sigaev  suddenly  felt  mortified  and  sorry  that  he 
would  be  dead,  and  would  miss  seeing  the  agonies 
of  the  traitress.  Revenge  is  only  sweet  when  one 
can  see  and  taste  its  fruits,  andt  what  sense  would 
there  be  in  it  if  he  were  lying  in  his  coffin,  knowing 
nothing  about  it? 

"  Hadn't  I  better  do  this?  "  he  pondered.  "  I'll 
kill  him,  then  I'll  go  to  his  funeral  and  look  on,  and 
after  the  funeral  I'll  kill  myself.  They'd  arrest 
me,  though,  before  the  funeral,  and  take  away  my 
pistol.   .   .   .  And  so  I'll  kill  him,  she  shall  remain 


An  Avenger  249 

alive,  and  I  .  .  .  for  the  time,  I'll  not  kill  myself, 
but  go  and  be  arrested.  I  shall  always  have  time  to 
kill  myself.  There  will  be  this  advantage  about 
being  arrested,  that  at  the  preliminary  investigation 
I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  exposing  to  the  au- 
thorities and  to  the  public  all  the  infamy  of  her  con- 
duct. If  I  kill  myself  she  may,  with  her  character- 
istic duplicity  and  impudence,  throw  all  the  blame 
on  me,  and  society  will  justify  her  behaviour  and 
will  very  likely  laugh  at  me.  ...  If  I  remain 
alive,  then  .   .   ." 

A  minute  later  he  was  thinking: 

"  Yes,  if  I  kill  myself  I  may  be  blamed  and  sus- 
pected of  petty  feeling.  .  .  .  Besides,  why  should 
I  kill  myself?  That's  one  thing.  And  for  another, 
to  shoot  oneself  is  cowardly.  And  so  I'll  kill  him 
and  let  her  live,  and  I'll  face  my  trial.  I  shall  be 
tried,  and  she  will  be  brought  into  court  as  a  wit- 
ness. ...  I  can  imagine  her  confusion,  her  dis- 
grace when  she  is  examined  by  my  counsel !  The 
sympathies  of  the  court,  of  the  Press,  and  of  the 
public  will  certainly  be  with  me." 

While  he  deliberated  the  shopman  displayed  his 
wares,  and  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  entertain 
his  customer. 

"  Here  are  English  ones,  a  new  pattern,  only 
just  received,"  he  prattled  on.  "  But  I  warn  you, 
M'sieu,  all  these  systems  pale  beside  the  Smith  and 
Wesson.  The  other  day — as  I  dare  say  you  have 
read — an  officer  bought  from  us  a  Smith  and  Wes- 
son. He  shot  his  wife's  lover,  and — would  you 
believe  it? — the  bullet  passed  through  him,  pierced 
the  bronze  lamp,  then  the  piano,  and  ricochetted 


250  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

back  from  the  piano,  killing  the  lap-dog  and  bruis- 
ing the  wife.  A  magnificent  record  redounding  to 
the  honour  of  our  firm!  The  officer  is  now  under 
arrest.  He  will  no  doubt  be  convicted  and  sent  to 
penal  servitude.  In  the  first  place,  our  penal  code  is 
quite  out  of  date;  and,  secondly,  M'sieu,  the  sympa- 
thies of  the  court  are  always  with  the  lover.  Why 
is  it?  Very  simple,  M'sieu.  The  judges  and  the 
jury  and  the  prosecutor  and  the  counsel  for  the 
defence  are  all  living  with  other  men's  wives,  and 
it'll  add  to  their  comfort  that  there  will  be  one 
husband  the  less  in  Russia.  Society  would  be 
pleased  if  the  Government  were  to  send  all  the 
husbands  to  Sahalin.  Oh,  M'sieu,  you  don't  know 
how  it  excites  my  indignation  to  see  the  corruption 
of  morals  nowadays.  To  love  other  men's  wives  is 
as  much  the  regular  thing  to-day  as  to  smoke  other 
men's  cigarettes  and  to  read  other  men's  books. 
Every  year  our  trade  gets  worse  and  worse — it 
doesn't  mean  that  wives  are  more  faithful,  but  that 
husbands  resign  themselves  to  their  position  and 
are  afraid  of  the  law  and  penal  servitude." 

The  shopman  looked  round  and  whispered: 
"And  whose  fault  is  it,  M'sieu?  The  Govern- 
ment's." 

"  To  go  to  Sahalin  for  the  sake  of  a  pig  like  that 
— there's  no  sense  in  that  either,"  Sigaev  pondered. 
"  If  I  go  to  penal  servitude  it  will  only  give  my  wife 
an  opportunity  of  marrying  again  and  deceiving  a 
second  husband.  She  would  triumph.  .  .  .  And 
so  I  will  leave  her  alive,  I  won't  kill  myself,  him 
...  I  won't  kill  either.  I  must  think  of  something 
more   sensible   and  more   effective.  .    I  will  punish 


An  Avenger  251 

them  with  my  contempt,  and  will  take  divorce  pro- 
ceedings that  will  make  a  scandal." 

"  Here,  M'sieu,  is  another  make,"  said  the  shop- 
man, taking  down  another  dozen  from  the  shelf. 
"  Let  me  call  your  attention  to  the  original  mechan- 
ism of  the  lock." 

In  view  of  his  determination  a  revolver  was  now 
of  no  use  to  Sigaev,  but  the  shopman,  meanwhile, 
getting  more  and  more  enthusiastic,  persisted  in 
displaying  his  wares  before  him.  The  outraged 
husband  began  to  feel  ashamed  that  the  shopman 
should  be  taking  so  much  trouble  on  his  account  for 
nothing,  that  he  should  be  smiling,  wasting  time, 
displaying  enthusiasm  for  nothing. 

"  Very  well,  in  that  case,"  he  muttered,  "  I'll 
look  in  again  later  on  ...  or  I'll  send  someone." 

He  didn't  see  the  expression  of  the  shopman's 
face,  but  to  smooth  over  the  awkwardness  of  the 
position  a  little  he  felt  called  upon  to  make  some 
purchase.  But  what  should  he  buy?  He  looked 
round  the  walls  of  the  shop  to  pick  out  something 
inexpensive,  and  his  eyes  rested  on  a  green  net 
hanging  near  the  door. 

"That's  .   .   .  what's  that?"  he  asked. 

"  That's  a  net  for  catching  quails." 

"  And  what  price  is  it?  " 

"  Eight  roubles,  M'sieu." 

"  Wrap  it  up  for  me.  .  .  ." 

The  outraged  husband  paid  his  eight  roubles, 
took  the  net,  and,  feeling  even  more  outraged, 
walked  out  of  the  shop. 


THE  JEUNE  PREMIER 


THE  JEUNE  PREMIER 

Yevgeny  Alexeyitch  Podzharov,  the  jeune 
premier,  a  graceful,  elegant  young  man  with  an 
oval  face  and  little  bags  under  his  eyes,  had  come 
for  the  season  to  one  of  the  southern  towns  of 
Russia,  and  tried  at  once  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  a  few  of  the  leading  families  of  the  place.  "  Yes, 
signor,"  he  would  often  say,  gracefully  swinging  his 
foot  and  displaying  his  red  socks,  "  an  artist  ought 
to  act  upon  the  masses,  both  directly  and  indirectly; 
the  first  aim  is  attained  by  his  work  on  the  stage, 
the  second  by  an  acquaintance  with  the  local  inhabi- 
tants. On  my  honour,  parole  d'honneur,  I  don't 
understand  why  it  is  we  actors  avoid  making  ac- 
quaintance with  local  families.  Why  is  it?  To 
say  nothing  of  dinners,  name-day  parties,  feasts, 
soirees  fixes,  to  say  nothing  of  these  entertainments, 
think  of  the  moral  influence  we  may  have  on  society ! 
Is  it  not  agreeable  to  feel  one  has  dropped  a  spark 
in  some  thick  skull?  The  types  one  meets!  The 
women !  Mon  Dieu,  what  women !  they  turn  one's 
head !  One  penetrates  into  some  huge  merchant's 
house,  into  the  sacred  retreats,  and  picks  out  some 
fresh  and  rosy  little  peach — it's  heaven,  parole 
d'honneur!  " 

In  the  southern  town,  among  other  estimable 
families  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  that  of  a 
manufacturer  called  Zybaev.    Whenever  he  remem- 

255 


256  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

bers  that  acquaintance  now  he  frowns  contemptu- 
ously, screws  up  his  eyes,  and  nervously  plays  with 
his  watch-chain. 

One  day — it  was  at  a  name-day  party  at  Zybaev's 
— the  actor  was  sitting  in  his  new  friends'  drawing- 
room  and  holding  forth  as  usual.  Around  him 
"  types  "  were  sitting  in  armchairs  and  on  the  sofa, 
listening  affably;  from  the  next  room  came  feminine 
laughter  and  the  sounds  of  evening  tea.  .  .  .  Cross- 
ing his  legs,  after  each  phrase  sipping  tea  with  rum 
in  it,  and  trying  to  assume  an  expression  of  careless 
boredom,  he  talked  of  his  stage  triumphs. 

"  I  am  a  provincial  actor  principally,"  he  said, 
smiling  condescendingly,  "  but  I  have  played  in 
Petersburg  and  Moscow  too.  ...  By  the  way, 
I  will  describe  an  incident  which  illustrates  pretty 
well  the  state  of  mind  of  to-day.  At  my  benefit 
in  Moscow  the  young  people  brought  me  such  a 
mass  of  laurel  wreaths  that  I  swear  by  all  I  hold 
sacred  I  did  not  know  where  to  put  them !  Parole 
d'lionncur!  Later  on,  at  a  moment  when  funds 
were  short,  I  took  the  laurel  wreaths  to  the  shop, 
and  .  .  .  guess  what  they  weighed.  Eighty 
pounds  altogether.  Ha,  ha!  you  can't  think  how 
useful  the  money  was.  Artists,  indeed,  are  often 
hard  up.  To-day  I  have  hundreds,  thousands,  to- 
morrow nothing.  .  .  .  To-day  I  haven't  a  crust  of 
bread,  to-morrow  I  have  oysters  and  anchovies, 
hang  it  all!  " 

The  local  inhabitants  sipped  their  glasses  de- 
corously and  listened.  The  well-pleased  host,  not 
knowing  how  to  make  enough  of  his  cultured  and 
interesting  visitor,  presented  to  him  a  distant  rela- 


The  Jeune  Premier  257 

tive  who  had  just  arrived,  one  Pavel  Ignatyevitch 
Klimov,  a  bulky  gentleman  about  forty,  wearing  a 
long  frock-coat  and  very  full  trousers. 

"  You  ought  to  know  each  other,"  said  Zybaev 
as  he  presented  Klimov;  "he  loves  theatres,  and 
at  one  time  used  to  act  himself.  He  has  an  estate 
in  the  Tula  province." 

Podzharov  and  Klimov  got  into  conversation.  It 
appeared,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  both,  that 
the  Tula  landowner  lived  in  the  very  town  in  which 
the  jeune  premier  had  acted  for  two  seasons  in  suc- 
cession. Enquiries  followed  about  the  town,  about 
common  acquaintances,  and  about  the  theatre.  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  know,  I  like  that  town  awfully,"  said 
the  jeune  premier,  displaying  his  red  socks.  "  What 
streets,  what  a  charming  park,  and  what  society! 
Delightful  society!  " 

"  Yes,  delightful  society,"  the  landowner  as- 
sented. 

"  A  commercial  town,  but  extremely  cultured. 
.  .  .  For  instance,  er-er-er  .  .  .  the  head  master  of 
the  high  school,  the  public  prosecutor  .  .  .  the  of- 
ficers. .  .  .  The  police  captain,  too,  was  not  bad, 
a  man,  as  the  French  say,  enchant  e,  and  the  women, 
Allah,  what  women!  " 

"  Yes,  the  women  .   .   .  certainly.   .   .   ." 

"  Perhaps  I  am  partial;  the  fact  is  that  in  your 
town,  I  don't  know  why,  I  was  devilishly  lucky  with 
the  fair  sex!  I  could  write  a  dozen  novels.  To 
take  this  episode,  for  instance.  ...  I  was  staying 
in  Yegoryevsky  Street,  in  the  very  house  where  the 
Treasury  is.  .  .  ." 

"  The  red  house  without  stucco?  " 


258  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Yes,  «  yes  .  .  .  without  stucco.  .  .  .  Close 
by,  as  I  remember  now,  lived  a  local  beauty, 
Varenka.   .   .   ." 

"Not  Varvara  Nikolayevna? "  asked  Klimov, 
and  he  beamed  with  satisfaction.  "  She  really  is  a 
beauty  .   .   .   the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  town." 

"  The  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  town!  A  classic 
profile,  great  black  eyes  .  .  .  and  hair  to  her  waist ! 
She  saw  me  in  '  Hamlet,'  she  wrote  me  a  letter  a  la 
Pushkin's  '  Tatyana.'  ...  I  answered,  as  you  may 
guess.   .  .  ." 

Podzharov  looked  round,  and  having  satisfied 
himself  that  there  were  no  ladies  in  the  room,  rolled 
his  eyes,  smiled  mournfully,  and  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  I  came  home  one  evening  after  a  performance," 
he  whispered,  "  and  there  she  was,  sitting  on  my 
sofa.  There  followed  tears,  protestations  of  love, 
kisses.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  was  a  marvellous,  that  was 
a  divine  night!  Our  romance  lasted  two  months, 
but  that  night  was  never  repeated.  It  was  a  night, 
parole  d'honneur!  " 

"Excuse  me,  what's  that?"  muttered  Klimov, 
turning  crimson  and  gazing  open-eyed  at  the  actor. 
"I  know  Varvara  Nikolayevna  well:  she's  my 
niece." 

Podzharov  was  embarrassed,  and  he,  too,  opened 
his  eyes  wide. 

"How's  this?"  Klimov  went  on,  throwing  up 
his  hands.  "  I  know  the  girl,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
I  am  surprised.   .   .   ." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  this  has  come  up,"  muttered 
the  actor,  getting  up  and  rubbing  something  out  of 


The  Jeune  Premier  259 

his  left  eye  with  his  little  finger.  "  Though,  of 
course  ...  of  course,  you  as  her  uncle  .  .   ." 

The  other  guests,  who  had  hitherto  been  listen- 
ing to  the  actor  with  pleasure  and  rewarding  him 
with  smiles,  were  embarrassed  and  dropped  their 
eyes. 

"  Please,  do  be  so  good  .  .  .  take  your  words 
back  .  .  ."  said  Klimov  in  extreme  embarrassment. 
"  I  beg  you  to  do  so !  " 

"If  .  .  .  er-er-er  ...  it  offends  you,  cer- 
tainly," answered  the  actor,  with  an  undefined  move- 
ment of  his  hand. 

"  And  confess  you  have  told  a  falsehood." 

"  I,  no  .  .  .  er-er-er.  ...  It  was  not  a  lie,  but 
...  I  greatly  regret  having  spoken  too  freely.  .  .  . 
And,  in  fact  ...  I  don't  understand  your  tone !  " 

Klimov  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in 
silence,  as  though  in  uncertainty  and  hesitation. 
His  fleshy  face  grew  more  and  more  crimson,  and 
the  veins  in  his  neck  swelled  up.  After  walking  up 
and  down  for  about  two  minutes  he  went  up  to  the 
actor  and  said  in  a  tearful  voice : 

"  No,  do  be  so  good  as  to  confess  that  you  told 
a  lie  about  Varenka !  Have  the  goodness  to  do 
so!" 

"  It's  queer,"  said  the  actor,  with  a  strained 
smile,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  swinging  his  leg. 
"  This  is  positively  insulting!  " 

"  So  you  will  not  confess  it?  " 

"  I  do-on't  understand!  " 

"You  will  not?  In  that  case,  excuse  me  .  .  . 
I  shall  have  to  resort  to  unpleasant  measures. 
Either,  sir,  I  shall  insult  you  at  once  on  the  spot, 


260  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

or  ...  if  you  are  an  honourable  man,  you  will 
kindly  accept  my  challenge  to  a  duel.  .  .  .  We  will 
fight!" 

"  Certainly!  "  rapped  out  the  jeune  premier,  with 
a  contemptuous  gesture.     "  Certainly." 

Extremely  perturbed,  the  guests  and  the  host,  not 
knowing  what  to  do,  drew  Klimov  aside  and  began 
begging  him  not  to  get  up  a  scandal.  Astonished 
feminine  countenances  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
.  .  .  The  jeune  premier  turned  round,  said  a  few 
words,  and  with  an  air  of  being  unable  to  remain  in 
a  house  where  he  was  insulted,  took  his  cap  and 
made  off  without  saying  good-bye. 

On  his  way  home  the  jeune  premier  smiled  con- 
temptuously and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  when 
he  reached  his  hotel  room  and  stretched  himself  on 
his  sofa  he  felt  exceedingly  uneasy. 

"The  devil  take  him!"  he  thought.  "A  duel 
does  not  matter,  he  won't  kill  me,  but  the  trouble  is 
the  other  fellows  will  hear  of  it,  and  they  know 
perfectly  well  it  was  a  yarn.  It's  abominable !  I 
shall  be  disgraced  all  over  Russia.   .   .  ." 

Podzharov  thought  a  little,  smoked,  and  to  calm 
himself  went  out  into  the  street. 

"  I  ought  to  talk  to  this  bully,  ram  into  his  stupid 
noddle  that  he  is  a  blockhead  and  a  fool,  and  that 
I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  him.   .   .  ." 

The  jeune  premier  stopped  before  Zybaev's  house 
and  looked  at  the  windows.  Lights  were  still  burn- 
ing behind  the  muslin  curtains  and  figures  were 
moving  about. 

"  I'll  wait  for  him!  "  the  actor  decided. 

It  was  dark  and  cold.    A  hateful  autumn  rain  was 


The  Jeune  Premier  261 

drizzling  as  though  through  a  sieve.  Podzharov 
leaned  his  elbow  on  a  lamp-post  and  abandoned 
himself  to  a  feeling  of  uneasiness. 

He  was  wet  through  and  exhausted. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  night  the  guests  began  com- 
ing out  of  Zybaev's  house.  The  landowner  from 
Tula  was  the  last  to  make  his  appearance.  He 
heaved  a  sigh  that  could  be  heard  by  the  whole 
street  and  scraped  the  pavement  with  his  heavy 
overboots. 

"  Excuse  me !  "  said  the  jeune  premier,  overtak- 
ing him.     "  One  minute." 

Klimov  stopped.  The  actor  gave  a  smile,  hesi- 
tated, and  began,  stammering:  "I  ...  I  confess 
...  I  told  a  lie." 

"  No,  sir,  you  will  please  confess  that  publicly," 
said  Klimov,  and  he  turned  crimson  again.  "  I  can't 
leave  it  like  that.  .  .  ." 

"  But  you  see  I  am  apologizing!  I  beg  you  .  .  . 
don't  you  understand?  I  beg  you  because  you  will 
admit  a  duel  will  make  talk,  and  I  am  in  a  position. 
.  .  .  My  fellow-actors  .  .  .  goodness  knows  what 
they  may  think.  .  .  ." 

The  jeune  premier  tried  to  appear  unconcerned, 
to  smile,  to  stand  erect,  but  his  body  would  not  obey 
him,  his  voice  trembled,  his  eyes  blinked  guiltily, 
and  his  head  drooped.  For  a  good  while  he  went 
on  muttering  something.  Klimov  listened  to  him, 
thought  a  little,  and  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  Well,  so  be  it,"  he  said.  "  May  God  forgive 
you.  Only  don't  lie  in  future,  young  man.  Nothing 
degrades     a     man     like     lying  .   .   .  yes,     indeed! 


262  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

You  are  a  young  man,  you  have  had  a  good  educa- 
tion. .  .  ." 

The  landowner  from  Tula,  in  a  benignant, 
fatherly  way,  gave  him  a  lecture,  while  the  jeune 
premier  listened  and  smiled  meekly.  .  .  .  When  it 
was  over  he  smirked,  bowed,  and  with  a  gailty  step 
and  a  crestfallen  air  set  off  for  his  hotel. 

As  he  went  to  bed  half  an  hour  later  he  felt  that 
he  was  out  of  danger  and  was  already  in  excellent 
spirits.  Serene  and  satisfied  that  the  misunder- 
standing had  ended  so  satisfactorily,  he  wrapped 
himself  in  the  bedclothes,  soon  fell  asleep,  and  slept 
soundly  till  ten  o'clock  next  morning. 


A  DEFENCELESS  CREATURE 


A  DEFENCELESS  CREATURE 

In  spite  of  a  violent  attack  of  gout  in  the  night  and 
the  nervous  exhaustion  left  by  it,  Kistunov  went 
in  the  morning  to  his  office  and  began  punctually 
seeing  the  clients  of  the  bank  and  persons  who  had 
come  with  petitions.  He  looked  languid  and  ex- 
hausted, and  spoke  in  a  faint  voice  hardly  above  a 
whisper,  as  though  he  were  dying. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked  a  lady  in 
an  antediluvian  mantle,  whose  back  view  was  ex- 
tremely suggestive  of  a  huge  dung-beetle. 

"  You  see,  your  Excellency,"  the  petitioner  in 
question  began,  speaking  rapidly,  "  my  husband 
Shtchukin,  a  collegiate  assessor,  was  ill  for  five 
months,  and  while  he,  if  you  will  excuse  my  saying 
so,  was  laid  up  at  home,  he  was  for  no  sort  of  rea- 
son dismissed,  your  Excellency;  and  when  I  went 
for  his  salary  they  deducted,  if  you  please,  your 
Excellency,  twenty-four  roubles  thirty-six  kopecks 
from  his  salary.  '  What  for?  '  I  asked.  '  He  bor- 
rowed from  the  club  fund,'  they  told  me,  '  and  the 
other  clerks  had  stood  security  for  him.'  How  was 
that?  How  could  he  have  borrowed  it  without  my 
consent?  It's  impossible,  your  Excellency.  What's 
the  reason  of  it?  I  am  a  poor  woman,  I  earn  my 
bread  by  taking  in  lodgers.  I  am  a  weak,  defence- 
less woman  ...  I  have  to  put  up  with  ill-usage 
from  everyone  and  never  hear  a  kind  word.  .  .  ." 

265 


266  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

The  petitioner  was  blinking,  and  dived  into  her 
mantle  for  her  handkerchief.  Kistunov  took  her 
petition  from  her  and  began  reading  it. 

"Excuse  me,  what's  this?"  he  asked,  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  "  I  can  make  nothing  of  it.  Evi- 
dently you  have  come  to  the  wrong  place,  madam. 
Your  petition  has  nothing  to  do  with  us  at  all.  You 
will  have  to  apply  to  the  department  in  which  your 
husband  was  employed." 

"  Why,  my  dear  sir,  I  have  been  to  five  places 
already,  and  they  would  not  even  take  the  petition 
anywhere,"  said  Madame  Shtchukin.  "  I'd  quite 
lost  my  head,  but,  thank  goodness — God  bless  him 
for  it — my  son-in-law,  Boris  Matveyitch,  advised  me 
to  come  to  you.  '  You  go  to  Mr.  Kistunov, 
mamma :  he  is  an  influential  man,  he  can  do  anything 
for  you.   .   .   .'     Help  me,  your  Excellency!  " 

11  We  can  do  nothing  for  you,  Madame  Shtchukin. 
You  must  understand:  your  husband  served  in  the 
Army  Medical  Department,  and  our  establishment 
is  a  purely  private  commercial  undertaking,  a  bank. 
Surely  you  must  understand  that !  " 

Kistunov  shrugged  his  shoulders  again  and 
turned  to  a  gentleman  in  a  military  uniform,  with 
a  swollen  face. 

"  Your  Excellency,"  piped  Madame  Shtchukin 
in  a  pitiful  voice,  "  I  have  the  doctor's  certificate 
that  my  husband  was  ill!  Here  it  is,  if  you  will 
kindly  look  at  it." 

"  Very  good,  I  believe  you,"  Kistunov  said  ir- 
ritably, "  but  I  repeat  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  us. 
It's  queer  and  positively  absurd!  Surely  your  hus- 
band must  know  where  you  are  to  apply?  " 


A  Defenceless  Creature  267 

"  He  knows  nothing,  your  Excellency.  He  keeps 
on:  'It's  not  your  business!  Get  away!' — that's 
all  I  can  get  out  of  him.  .  .  .  Whose  business  is 
it,  then?     It's  I  have  to  keep  them  all!  " 

Kistunov  again  turned  to  Madame  Shtchukin  and 
began  explaining  to  her  the  difference  between  the 
Army  Medical  Department  and  a  private  bank. 
She  listened  attentively,  nodded  in  token  of  assent, 
and  said: 

"  Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  understand,  sir. 
In  that  case,  your  Excellency,  tell  them  to  pay  me 
fifteen  roubles  at  least !  I  agree  to  take  part  on 
account !  " 

"  Ough!  "  sighed  Kistunov,  letting  his  head  drop 
back.  "  There's  no  making  you  see  reason.  Do 
understand  that  to  apply  to  us  with  such  a  petition 
is  as  strange  as  to  send  in  a  petition  concerning 
divorce,  for  instance,  to  a  chemist's  or  to  the  Assay- 
ing Board.  You  have  not  been  paid  your  due,  but 
what  have  we  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Your  Excellency,  make  me  remember  you  in 
my  prayers  for  the  rest  of  my  days,  have  pity  on 
a  lone,  lorn  woman,"  wailed  Madame  Shtchukin; 
"  I  am  a  weak,  defenceless  woman.  ...  I  am 
worried  to  death,  I've  to  settle  with  the  lodgers 
and  see  to  my  husband's  affairs  and  fly  round  looking 
after  the  house,  and  I  am  going  to  church  every  day 
this  week,  and  my  son-in-law  is  out  of  a  job.  .  .  . 
I  might  as  well  not  eat  or  drink.  ...  I  can  scarcely 
keep  on  my  feet.  ...  I  haven't  slept  all 
night.  .  .  ." 

Kistunov  was  conscious  of  the  palpitation  of  his 
heart.     With  a  face  of  anguish,  pressing  his  hand 


268  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

on  his  heart,  he  began  explaining  to  Madame 
Shtchukin  again,  but  his  voice  failed  him.  .  .  . 

"  No,  excuse  me,  I  cannot  talk  to  you,"  he  said 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "  My  head's  going  round. 
You  are  hindering  us  and  wasting  your  time.  Ough ! 
Alexey  Nikolaitch,"  he  said,  addressing  one  of  his 
clerks,  "  please  will  you  explain  to  Madame 
Shtchukin?" 

Kistunov,  passing  by  all  the  petitioners,  went  to 
his  private  room  and  signed  about  a  dozen  papers 
while  Alexey  Nikolaitch  was  still  engaged  with  Ma- 
dame Shtchukin.  As  he  sat  in  his  room  Kistunov 
heard  two  voices:  the  monotonous,  restrained  bass 
of  Alexey  Nikolaitch  and  the  shrill,  wailing  voice  of 
Madame  Shtchukin. 

"  I  am  a  weak,  defenceless  woman,  I  am  a  woman 
in  delicate  health,"  said  Madame  Shtchukin.  "  I 
look  strong,  but  if  you  were  to  overhaul  me  there  is 
not  one  healthy  fibre  in  me.  I  can  scarcely  keep 
on  my  feet,  and  my  appetite  is  gone.  ...  I  drank 
my  cup  of  coffee  this  morning  without  the  slightest 
relish.  .  .  ." 

Alexey  Nikolaitch  explained  to  her  the  difference 
between  the  departments  and  the  complicated  sys- 
tem of  sending  in  papers.  He  was  soon  exhausted, 
and  his  place  was  taken  by  the  accountant. 

"  A  wonderfully  disagreeable  woman!  "  said  Kis- 
tunov, revolted,  nervously  cracking  his  fingers  and 
continually  going  to  the  decanter  of  water.  "  She's 
a  perfect  idiot!  She's  worn  me  out  and  she'll  ex- 
haust them,  the  nasty  creature!  Oughl  .  .  .  my 
heart  is  throbbing." 


A  Defenceless  Creature  269 

Half  an  hour  later  he  rang  his  bell.  Alexey 
Nikolaitch  made  his  appearance. 

"  How  are  things  going? "  Kistunov  asked 
languidly. 

"  We  can't  make  her  see  anything,  Pyotr  Alexand- 
ritch !  We  are  simply  done.  We  talk  of  one  thing 
and  she  talks  of  something  else." 

"  I  ...  I  can't  stand  the  sound  of  her  voice. 
...   I  am  ill.   ...  I  can't  bear  it." 

"  Send  for  the  porter,  Pyotr  Alexandritch,  let 
him  put  her  out." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Kistunov  in  alarm.  "She  will 
set  up  a  squeal,  and  there  are  lots  of  flats  in  this 
building,  and  goodness  knows  what  they  would  think 
of  us.  .  .  .  Do  try  and  explain  to  her,  my  dear 
fellow.   .  .  ." 

A  minute  later  the  deep  drone  of  Alexey  Niko- 
laitch's  voice  was  audible  again.  A  quarter  of 
an  hour  passed,  and  instead  of  his  bass  there 
was  the  murmur  of  the  accountant's  powerful 
tenor." 

"  Re-mark-ably  nasty  woman,"  Kistunov  thought 
indignantly,  nervously  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"  No  more  brains  than  a  sheep.  I  believe  that's  a 
twinge  of  the  gout  again.  .  .  .  My  migraine  is 
coming  back.   .   .   ." 

In  the  next  room  Alexey  Nikolaitch,  at  the  end 
of  his  resources,  at  last  tapped  his  finger  on  the 
table  and  then  on  his  own  forehead. 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is  you  haven't  a  head  on 
your  shoulders,"  he  said,  "  but  this." 

11  Come,    come,"    said    the    old    lady,    offended. 


270  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Talk  to  your  own  wife:  like  that.  .  .  .  You  screw  1 
.   .   .   Don't  be  too  free  with  your  hands." 

And  looking  at  her  with  fury,  with  exasperation, 
as  though  he  would  devour  her,  Alexey  Nikolaitch 
said  in  a  quiet,  stifled  voice : 

11  Clear  out." 

"Wha-at?"  squealed  Madame  Shtchukin. 
"How  dare  you?  I  am  a  weak,  defenceless 
woman;  I  won't  endure  it.  My  husband  is  a  collegi- 
ate assessor.  You  screw !  .  .  .  I  will  go  to  Dmitri 
Karlitch,  the  lawyer,  and  there  will  be  nothing  left 
of  you!  I've  had  the  law  of  three  lodgers,  and  I 
will  make  you  flop  down  at  my  feet  for  your  saucy 
words!  I'll  go  to  your  general.  Your  Excellency, 
your  Excellency!  " 

"  Be  off,  you  pest,"  hissed  Alexey  Nikolaitch. 

Kistunov  opened  his  door  and  looked  into  the 
office. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked  in  a  tearful  voice. 

Madame  Shtchukin,  as  red  as  a  crab,  was  stand- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  room,  rolling  her  eyes  and 
prodding  the  air  with  her  fingers.  The  bank  clerks 
were  standing  round  red  in  the  face  too,  and,  evi- 
dently harassed,  were  looking  at  each  other 
distractedly. 

"  Your  Excellency,"  cried  Madame  Shtchukin, 
pouncing  upon  Kistunov.  "  Here,  this  man,  he 
here  .  .  .  this  man  .  .  ."  (she  pointed  to  Alexey 
Nikolaitch)  "  tapped  himself  on  the  forehead  and 
then  tapped  the  table.  .  .  .  You  told  him  to  go 
into  my  case,  and  he's  jeering  at  me !  I  am  a  weak, 
defenceless  woman.  .  .  .  My  husband  is  a  collegi- 
ate assessor,  and  I  am  a  major's  daughter  myself!  " 


A  Defenceless  Creature  271 

"  Very  good,  madam,"  moaned  Kistunov.  "  I 
will  go  into  it  ...  I  will  take  steps.  .  .  .  Go  away 
.  .  .  later!" 

"  And  when  shall  I  get  the  money,  your  Excel- 
lency?    I  need  it  to-day!  " 

Kistunov  passed  his  trembling  hand  over  his  fore- 
head, heaved  a  sigh,  and  began  explaining  again. 

"  Madam,  I  have  told  you  already  this  is  a  bank, 
a  private  commercial  establishment.  .  .  .  What  do 
you  want  of  us?  And  do  understand  that  you  are 
hindering  us." 

Madame  Shtchukin  listened  to  him  and  sighed. 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  she  assented.  "  Only, 
your  Excellency,  do  me  the  kindness,  make  me  pray 
for  you  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  be  a  father,  pro- 
tect me !  If  a  medical  certificate  is  not  enough  I 
can  produce  an  affidavit  from  the  police.  .  .  .  Tell 
them  to  give  me  the  money." 

Everything  began  swimming  before  Kistunov's 
eyes.  He  breathed  out  all  the  air  in  his  lungs  in  a 
prolonged  sigh  and  sank  helpless  on  a  chair. 

"  How  much  do  you  want?  "  he  asked  in  a  weak 
voice. 

"  Twenty-four  roubles  and  thirty-six  kopecks." 

Kistunov  took  his  pocket-book  out  of  his  pocket, 
extracted  a  twenty-five  rouble  note  and  gave  it  to 
Madame  Shtchukin. 

"  Take  it  and  .   .   .   and  go  away!  " 

Madame  Shtchukin  wrapped  the  money  up  in  her 
handkerchief,  put  it  away,  and  pursing  up  her  face 
into  a  sweet,  mincing,  even  coquettish  smile,  asked: 

"  Your  Excellency,  and  would  it  be  possible  for 
my  husband  to  get  a  post  again?  " 


272  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  I  am  going  ...  I  am  ill  .  .  ."  said  Kistunov 
in  a  weary  voice.     "  I  have  dreadful  palpitations." 

When  he  had  driven  home  Alexey  Nikolaitch  sent 
Nikita  for  some  laurel  drops,  and,  after  taking 
twenty  drops  each,  all  the  clerks  set  to  work,  while 
Madame  Shtchukin  stayed  another  two  hours  in  the 
vestibule,  talking  to  the  porter  and  waiting  for  Kis- 
tunov to  return.  .  .  . 

She  came  again  next  day. 


AN  ENIGMATIC  NATURE 


AN  ENIGMATIC  NATURE 

On  the  red  velvet  seat  of  a  first-class  railway  car- 
riage a  pretty  lady  sits  half  reclining.  An  expensive 
fluffy  fan  trembles  in  her  tightly  closed  fingers,  a 
pince-nez  keeps  dropping  off  her  pretty  little  nose, 
the  brooch  heaves  and  falls  on  her  bosom,  like  a 
boat  on  the  ocean.     She  is  greatly  agitated. 

On  the  seat  opposite  sits  the  Provincial  Secretary 
of  Special  Commissions,  a  budding  young  author, 
who  from  time  to  time  publishes  long  stories  of 
high  life,  or  "  Novelli  "  as  he  calls  them,  in  the 
leading  paper  of  the  province.  He  is  gazing  into 
her  face,  gazing  intently,  with  the  eyes  of  a  con- 
noisseur. He  is  watching,  studying,  catching  every 
shade  of  this  exceptional,  enigmatic  nature.  He 
understands  it,  he  fathoms  it.  Her  soul,  her  whole 
psychology  lies  open  before  him. 

"  Oh,  I  understand,  I  understand  you  to  your 
inmost  depths!  "  says  the  Secretary  of  Special  Com- 
missions, kissing  her  hand  near  the  bracelet. 
"  Your  sensitive,  responsive  soul  is  seeking  to  escape 

from  the  maze  of Yes,  the  struggle  is  terrific, 

titanic.  But  do  not  lose  heart,  you  will  be  trium- 
phant!    Yes!" 

"Write  about  me,  Voldemar!  "  says  the  pretty 
lady,  with  a  mournful  smile.  "  My  life  has  been  so 
full,  so  varied,  so  chequered.  Above  all,  I  am 
unhappy.     I  am  a  suffering  soul  in  some  page  of 

275 


276  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Dostoevsky.  Reveal  my  soul  to  the  world,  Volde- 
mar.  Reveal  that  hapless  soul.  You  are  a  psychol- 
ogist. We  have  not  been  in  the  train  an  hour  to- 
gether, and  you  have  already  fathomed  my  heart." 

"  Tell  me  !     I  beseech  you,  tell  me  !  " 

"  Listen.  My  father  was  a  poor  clerk  in  the 
Service.  He  had  a  good  heart  and  was  not  without 
intelligence;  but  the  spirit  of  the  age — of  his  envir- 
onment— vous  comprenez? — I  do  not  blame  my 
poor  father.  He  drank,  gambled,  took  bribes.  My 
mother — but  why  say  more?  Poverty,  the  struggle 
for  daily  bread,  the  consciousness  of  insignificance 
— ah,  do  not  force  me  to  recall  it!  I  had  to  make 
my  own  way.  You  know  the  monstrous  education 
at  a  boarding-school,  foolish  novel-reading,  the  er- 
rors of  early  youth,  the  first  timid  flutter  of  love. 
It  was  awful!  The  vacillation!  And  the  agonies 
of  losing  faith  in  life,  in  oneself!  Ah,  you  are  an 
author.  You  know  us  women.  You  will  under- 
stand. Unhappily  I  have  an  intense  nature.  I 
looked  for  happiness — and  what  happiness!  I 
longed  to  set  my  soul  free.  Yes.  In  that  I  saw 
my  happiness !  " 

"  Exquisite  creature !  "  murmured  the  author, 
kissing  her  hand  close  to  the  bracelet.  "  It's  not 
you  I  am  kissing,  but  the  suffering  of  humanity. 
Do  you  remember  Raskolnikov  and  his  kiss?  " 

"  Oh,  Voldemar,  I  longed  for  glory,  renown,  suc- 
cess, like  every — why  affect  modesty? — every  nature 
above  the  commonplace.  I  yearned  for  something 
extraordinary,  above  the  common  lot  of  woman! 
And  then — and  then — there  crossed  my  path — an 
old  general — very  well  off.    Understand  me,  Volde- 


An  Enigmatic  Nature  277 

mar!  It  was  self-sacrifice,  renunciation!  You  must 
see  that!  I  could  do  nothing  else.  I  restored  the 
family  fortunes,  was  able  to  travel,  to  do  good. 
Yet  how  I  suffered,  how  revolting,  how  loathsome 
to  me  were  his  embraces — though  I  will  be  fair  to 
him — he  had  fought  nobly  in  his  day.  There  were 
moments — terrible  moments — but  I  was  kept  up  by 
the  thought  that  from  day  to  day  the  old  man  might 
die,  that  then  I  would  begin  to  live  as  I  liked,  to  give 
myself  to  the  man  I  adore — be  happy.  There  is 
such  a  man,  Voldemar,  indeed  there  is!  " 

The  pretty  lady  flutters  her  fan  more  violently. 
Her  face  takes  a  lachrymose  expression.  She  goes 
on: 

"  But  at  last  the  old  man  died.  He  left  me  some- 
thing. I  was  free  as  a  bird  of  the  air.  Now  is  the 
moment  for  me  to  be  happy,  isn't  it,  Voldemar? 
Happiness  comes  tapping  at  my  window,  I  had  only 
to  let  it  in — but — Voldemar,  listen,  I  implore  you! 
Now  is  the  time  for  me  to  give  myself  to  the  man 
I  love,  to  become  the  partner  of  his  life,  to  help,  to 
uphold  his  ideals,  to  be  happy — to  find  rest — but 
— how  ignoble,  repulsive,  and  senseless  all  our  life 
is!  How  mean  it  all  is,  Voldemar.  I  am  wretched, 
wretched,  wretched!  Again  there  is  an  obstacle  in 
my  path !  Again  I  feel  that  my  happiness  is  far, 
far  away !  Ah,  what  anguish ! — if  only  you  knew 
what  anguish!  " 

"  But  what — what  stands  in  your  way?  I  im- 
plore you  tell  me  !     What  is  it?  " 

"  Another  old  general,  very  well  off " 

The  broken  fan  conceals  the  pretty  little  face. 


278  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

The  author  props  on  his  fist  his  thought-heavy  brow 
and  ponders  with  the  air  of  a  master  in  psychology. 
The  engine  is  whistling  and  hissing  while  the  window 
curtains  flush  red  with  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun. 


A  HAPPY  MAN 


A  HAPPY  MAN 

The  passenger  train  is  just  starting  from  Bologoe, 
the  junction  on  the  Petersburg-Moscow  line.  In  a 
second-class  smoking  compartment  five  passengers 
sit  dozing,  shrouded  in  the  twilight  of  the  carriage. 
They  had  just  had  a  meal,  and  now,  snugly  en- 
sconced in  their  seats,  they  are  trying  to  go  to  sleep. 
Stillness. 

The  door  opens  and  in  there  walks  a  tall,  lanky 
figure  straight  as  a  poker,  with  a  ginger-coloured 
hat  and  a  smart  overcoat,  wonderfully  suggestive 
of  a  journalist  in  Jules  Verne  or  on  the  comic  stage. 

The  figure  stands  still  in  the  middle  of  the  com- 
partment for  a  long  while,  breathing  heavily,  screw- 
ing up  his  eyes  and  peering  at  the  seats. 

"No,  wrong  again!"  he  mutters.  "What  the 
deuce!  It's  positively  revolting!  No,  the  wrong 
one  again!  " 

One  of  the  passengers  stares  at  the  figure  and 
utters  a  shout  of  joy: 

"Ivan  Alexyevitch!  what  brings  you  here?  Is 
it  you?" 

The  poker-like  gentleman  starts,  stares  blankly 
at  the  passenger,  and  recognizing  him  claps  his 
hands  with  delight. 

"  Ha !  Pyotr  Petrovitch,"  he  says.  "  How 
many  summers,  how  many  winters !  I  didn't  know 
you  were  in  this  train." 

281 


282  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"How  are  you  getting  on?" 

"  I  am  all  right;  the  only  thing  is,  my  dear  fellow, 
I've  lost  my  compartment  and  I  simply  can't  find  it. 
What  an  idiot  I  am!     I  ought  to  be  thrashed!  " 

The  poker-like  gentleman  sways  a  little  unsteadily 
and  sniggers. 

"Queer  things  do  happen!"  he  continues.  "I 
stepped  out  just  after  the  second  bell  to  get  a  glass 
of  brandy.  I  got  it,  of  course.  Well,  I  thought, 
since  it's  a  long  way  to  the  next  station,  it  would 
be  as  well  to  have  a  second  glass.  While  I  was 
thinking  about  it  and  drinking  it  the  third  bell  rang. 
...  I  ran  like  mad  and  jumped  into  the  first  car- 
riage.    I  am  an  idiot!     I  am  the  son  of  a  hen!  " 

"  But  you  seem  in  very  good  spirits,"  observes 
Pyotr  Petrovitch.  "  Come  and  sit  down!  There's 
room  and  a  welcome." 

"  No,  no.  .  .  .  I'm  off  to  look  for  my  carriage. 
Good-bye !  " 

"  You'll  fall  between  the  carriages  in  the  dark 
if  you  don't  look  out !  Sit  down,  and  when  we  get 
to  a  station  you'll  find  your  own  compartment.  Sit 
down!" 

Ivan  Alexyevitch  heaves  a  sigh  and  irresolutely 
sits  down  facing  Pyotr  Petrovitch.  He  is  visibly 
excited,  and  fidgets  as  though  he  were  sitting  on 
thorns. 

"Where  are  you  travelling  to?"  Pyotr  Petrov- 
itch enquires. 

"I?  Into  space.  There  is  such  a  turmoil  in 
my  head  that  I  couldn't  tell  where  I  am  going  my- 
self. I  go  where  fate  takes  me.  Ha-ha !  My  dear 
fellow,  have  you  ever  seen  a  happy  fool?     No? 


A  Happy  Man  283 

Well,  then,  take  a  look  at  one.  You  behold  the 
happiest  of  mortals!  Yes!  Don't  you  see  some- 
thing from  my  face?" 

"  Well,  one  can  see  you're  a  bit  ...  a  tiny  bit 
so-so." 

"  I  dare  say  I  look  awfully  stupid  just  now.  Ach ! 
it's  a  pity  I  haven't  a  looking-glass,  I  should  like 
to  look  at  my  counting-house.  My  dear  fellow,  I 
feel  I  am  turning  into  an  idiot,  honour  bright.  Ha- 
ha  !  Would  you  believe  it,  I'm  on  my  honeymoon. 
Am  I  not  the  son  of  a  hen?  " 

"  You?    Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  married?  " 

"  To-day,  my  dear  boy.  We  came  away  straight 
after  the  wedding." 

Congratulations  and  the  usual  questions  follow. 

"Well,  you  are  a  fellow!  "  laughs  Pyotr  Petrov- 
itch.  "  That's  why  you  are  rigged  out  such  a 
dandy." 

"  Yes,  indeed.  .  .  .  To  complete  the  illusion. 
I've  even  sprinkled  myself  with  scent.  I  am  over 
my  ears  in  vanity !  No  care,  no  thought,  nothing 
but  a  sensation  of  something  or  other  .  .  .  deuce 
knows  what  to  call  it  .  .  .  beatitude  or  something? 
I've  never  felt  so  grand  in  my  life!  " 

Ivan  Alexyevitch  shuts  his  eyes  and  waggles  his 
head. 

"  I'm  revoltingly  happy,"  he  says.  "Just  think; 
in  a  minute  I  shall  go  to  my  compartment.  There 
on  the  seat  near  the  window  is  sitting  a  being  who 
is,  so  to  say,  devoted  to  you  with  her  whole  being. 
A  little  blonde  with  a  little  nose  .  .  .  little  fingers. 
.  .  .  My  little  darling!  My  angel!  My  little 
poppet !     Phylloxera  of  my  soul !     And  her  little 


284  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

foot !  Good  God !  A  little  foot  not  like  our  beetle- 
crushers,  but  something  miniature,  fairylike,  allego- 
rical. I  could  pick  it  up  and  eat  it,  that  little  foot! 
Oh,  but  you  don't  understand!  You're  a  material- 
ist, of  course,  you  begin  analyzing  at  once,  and  one 
thing  and  another.  You  are  cold-hearted  bachelors, 
that's  what  you  are !  When  you  get  married  you'll 
think  of  me.  'Where's  Ivan  Alexyevitch  now?' 
you'll  say.  Yes;  so  in  a  minute  I'm  going  to  my 
compartment.  There  she  is  waiting  for  me  with 
impatience  ...  in  joyful  anticipation  of  my  ap- 
pearance. She'll  have  a  smile  to  greet  me.  I  sit 
down  beside  her  and  take  her  chin  with  my  two 
fingers.   .   .   ." 

Ivan  Alexyevitch  waggles  his  head  and  goes  off 
into  a  chuckle  of  delight. 

"  Then  I  lay  my  noddle  on  her  shoulder  and  put 
my  arm  round  her  waist.  Around  all  is  silence,  you 
know  .  .  .  poetic  twilight.  I  could  embrace  the 
whole  world  at  such  a  moment.  Pyotr  Petrovitch, 
allow  me  to  embrace  you !  " 

"  Delighted,  I'm  sure."  The  two  friends  em- 
brace while  the  passengers  laugh  in  chorus.  And 
the  happy  bridegroom  continues: 

"  And  to  complete  the  idiocy,  or,  as  the  novelists 
say,  to  complete  the  illusion,  one  goes  to  the  refresh- 
ment-room and  tosses  off  two  or  three  glasses. 
And  then  something  happens  in  your  head  and  your 
heart,  finer  than  you  can  read  of  in  a  fairy  tale.  I 
am  a  man  of  no  importance,  but  I  feel  as  though  I 
were  limitless:  I  embrace  the  whole  world!  " 

The  passengers,  looking  at  the  tipsy  and  blissful 
bridegroom,   are   infected  by  his  cheerfulness   and 


A  Happy  Man  285 

no  longer  feel  sleepy.  Instead  of  one  listener,  Ivan 
Alexyevitch  has  now  an  audience  of  five.  He 
wriggles  and  splutters,  gesticulates,  and  prattles  on 
without  ceasing.     He  laughs  and  they  all  laugh. 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  don't  think  so  much! 
Damn  all  this  analysis !  If  you  want  a  drink,  drink, 
no  need  to  philosophize  as  to  whether  it's  bad  for 
you  or  not.  .  .  .  Damn  all  this  philosophy  and 
psychology!  " 

The  guard  walks  through  the  compartment. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  the  bridegroom  addresses 
him,  "  when  you  pass  through  the  carriage  No.  209 
look  out  for  a  lady  in  a  grey  hat  with  a  white  bird 
and  tell  her  I'm  here !  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  Only  there  isn't  a  No.  209  in  this 
train;  there's  219  !  " 

"Well,  219,  then!  It's  all  the  same.  Tell  that 
lady,  then,  that  her  husband  is  all  right !  " 

Ivan  Alexyevitch  suddenly  clutches  his  head  and 
groans : 

"  Husband.  .  .  .  Lady.  .  .  .  All  in  a  minute ! 
Husband.  .  .  .  Ha-ha !  I  am  a  puppy  that  needs 
thrashing,  and  here  I  am  a  husband !  Ach,  idiot ! 
But  think  of  her!  .  .  .  Yesterday  she  was  a  little 
girl,  a  midget  .  .   .  it's  simply  incredible !  " 

"  Nowadays  it  really  seems  strange  to  see  a 
happy  man,"  observes  one  of  the  passengers;  "  one 
as  soon  expects  to  see  a  white  elephant." 

"Yes,  and  whose  fault  is  it?"  says  Ivan  Alex- 
yevitch, stretching  his  long  legs  and  thrusting  out 
his  feet  with  their  very  pointed  toes.  "  If  you  are 
not  happy  it's  your  own  fault !  Yes,  what  else  do 
you  suppose  it  is?     Man  is  the  creator  of  his  own 


286  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

happiness.  If  you  want  to  be  happy  you  will  be,  but 
you  don't  want  to  be !  You  obstinately  turn  away 
from  happiness." 

"Why,  what  next!  How  do  you  make  that 
out?" 

"  Very  simply.  Nature  has  ordained  that  at  a 
certain  stage  in  his  life  man  should  love.  When 
that  time  comes  you  should  love  like  a  house  on 
fire,  but  you  won't  heed  the  dictates  of  nature,  you 
keep  waiting  for  something.  What's  more,  it's  laid 
down  by  law  that  the  normal  man  should  enter  upon 
matrimony.  There's  no  happiness  without  mar- 
riage. When  the  propitious  moment  has  come,  get 
married.  There's  no  use  in  shilly-shallying.  .  .  . 
But  you  don't  get  married,  you  keep  waiting  for 
something!  Then  the  Scriptures  tell  us  that  'wine 
maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man.'  ...  If  you  feel 
happy  and  you  want  to  feel  better  still,  then  go  to 
the  refreshment  bar  and  have  a  drink.  The  great 
thing  is  not  to  be  too  clever,  but  to  follow  the 
beaten  track!    The  beaten  track  is  a  grand  thing!  " 

"  You  say  that  man  is  the  creator  of  his  own  hap- 
piness. How  the  devil  is  he  the  creator  of  it  when  a 
toothache  or  an  ill-natured  mother-in-law  is  enough 
to  scatter  his  happiness  to  the  winds?  Everything 
depends  on  chance.  If  we  had  an  accident  at  this 
moment  you'd  sing  a  different  tune." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense !  "  retorts  the  bridegroom. 
"  Railway  accidents  only  happen  once  a  year.  I'm 
not  afraid  of  an  accident,  for  there  is  no  reason 
for  one.  Accidents  are  exceptional!  Confound 
them!  I  don't  want  to  talk  of  them!  Oh,  I  be- 
lieve we're  stopping  at  a  station." 


A  Happy  Man  287 

"Where  are  you  going  now?"  asks  Pyotr  Pet- 
rovitch.  "  To  Moscow  or  somewhere  further 
south?" 

"  Why,  bless  you !  How  could  I  go  somewhere 
further  south,  when  I'm  on  my  way  to  the  north?  " 

"  But  Moscow  isn't  in  the  north." 

"  I  know  that,  but  we're  on  our  way  to  Peters- 
burg," says  Ivan  Alexyevitch. 

"  We  are  going  to  Moscow,  mercy  on  us!  " 

"To  Moscow?  What  do  you  mean?"  says  the 
bridegroom  in  amazement. 

"  It's  queer.  .  .  .  For  what  station  did  you  take 
your  ticket?  " 

"  For  Petersburg." 

"  In  that  case  I  congratulate  you.  You've  got 
into  the  wrong  train." 

There  follows  a  minute  of  silence.  The  bride- 
groom gets  up  and  looks  blankly  round  the  company. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Pyotr  Petrovitch  explains.  "  You 
must  have  jumped  into  the  wrong  train  at  Bologoe. 
.  .  .  After  your  glass  of  brandy  you  succeeded  in 
getting  inlo  the  down-train." 

Ivan  Alexyevitch  turns  pale,  clutches  his  head, 
and  begins  pacing  rapidly  about  the  carriage. 

"  Ach,  idiot  that  I  am!"  he  says  in  indignation. 
"  Scoundrel !  The  devil  devour  me  !  Whatever  am 
I  to  do  now?  Why,  my  wife  is  in  that  train !  She's 
there  all  alone,  expecting  me,  consumed  by  anxiety. 
Ach,  I'm  a  motley  fool!  " 

The  bridegroom  falls  on  the  seat  and  writhes  as 
though  someone  had  trodden  on  his  corns. 

"  I  am  un-unhappy  man !  "  he  moans.  "  What 
am  I  to  do,  what  am  I  to  do?  " 


288  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  There,  there !  "  the  passengers  try  to  console 
him.  "  It's  all  right.  .  .  .  You  must  telegraph  to 
your  wife  and  try  to  change  into  the  Petersburg 
express.     In  that  way  you'll  overtake  her." 

"The  Petersburg  express!"  weeps  the  bride- 
groom, the  creator  of  his  own  happiness.  "  And 
how  am  I  to  get  a  ticket  for  the  Petersburg  express? 
All  my  money  is  with  my  wife." 

The  passengers,  laughing  and  whispering  to- 
gether, make  a  collection  and  furnish  the  happy 
man  with  funds. 


A  TROUBLESOME  VISITOR 


A  TROUBLESOME  VISITOR 

In  the  low-pitched,  crooked  little  hut  of  Artyom, 
the  forester,  two  men  were  sitting  under  the  big 
dark  ikon — Artyom  himself,  a  short  and  lean  peas- 
ant with  a  wrinkled,  aged-looking  face  and  a  little 
beard  that  grew  out  of  his  neck,  and  a  well-grown 
young  man  in  a  new  crimson  shirt  and  big  wading 
boots,  who  had  been  out  hunting  and  come  in  for 
the  night.  They  were  sitting  on  a  bench  at  a  little 
three-legged  table  on  which  a  tallow  candle  stuck 
into  a  bottle  was  lazily  burning. 

Outside  the  window  the  darkness  of  the  night 
was  full  of  the  noisy  uproar  into  which  nature  usually 
breaks  out  before  a  thunderstorm.  The  wind 
howled  angrily  and  the  bowed  trees  moaned  miser- 
ably. One  pane  of  the  window  had  been  pasted  up 
with  paper,  and  leaves  torn  off  by  the  wind  could 
be  heard  pattering  against  the  paper. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  good  Christian,"  said  Artyom 
in  a  hoarse  little  tenor  half-whisper,  staring  with 
unblinking,  scared-looking  eyes  at  the  hunter.  "  I 
am  not  afraid  of  wolves  or  bears,  or  wild  beasts  of 
any  sort,  but  I  am  afraid  of  man.  You  can  save 
yourself  from  beasts  with  a  gun  or  some  other 
weapon,  but  you  have  no  means  of  saving  yourself 
from  a  wicked  man." 

"  To  be  sure,  you  can  fire  at  a  beast,  but  if  you 
291 


\ 


292  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

shoot  at  a  robber  you  will  have  to  answer  for  it: 
you  will  go  to  Siberia." 

"  I've  been  forester,  my  lad,  for  thirty  years, 
and  I  couldn't  tell  you  what  I  have  had  to  put  up 
with  from  wicked  men.  There  have  been  lots  and 
lots  of  them  here.  The  hut's  on  a  track,  it's  a  cart- 
road,  and  that  brings  them,  the  devils.  Every  sort 
of  ruffian  turns  up,  and  without  taking  off  his  cap 
or  making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  bursts  straight  in 
upon  one  with :  '  Give  us  some  bread,  you  old  so- 
and-so.'  And  where  am  I  to  get  bread  for  him? 
What  claim  has  he?  Am  I  a  millionaire  to  feed 
every  drunkard  that  passes?  They  are  half-blind 
with  spite.  .  .  .  They  have  no  cross  on  them,  the 
devils.  .  .  .  They'll  give  you  a  clout  on  the  ear  and 
not  think  twice  about  it:  '  Give  us  bread!  '  Well, 
one  gives  it.  .  .  .  One  is  not  going  to  fight  with 
them,  the  idols !  Some  of  them  are  two  yards  across 
the  shoulders,  and  a  great  fist  as  big  as  your  boot, 
and  you  see  the  sort  of  figure  I  am.  One  of  them 
could  smash  me  with  his  little  finger.  .  .  .  Well, 
one  gives  him  bread  and  he  gobbles  it  up,  and 
stretches  out  full  length  across  the  hut  with  not  a 
word  of  thanks.  And  there  are  some  that  ask  for 
money.  'Tell  me,  where  is  your  money?'  As 
though  I  had  money!     How  should  I  come  by  it?  " 

"  A  forester  and  no  money !  "  laughed  the  hunter. 
"  You  get  wages  every  month,  and  I'll  be  bound 
you  sell  timber  on  the  sly." 

Artyom  took  a  timid  sideway  glance  at  his  visitor 
and  twitched  his  beard  as  a  magpie  twitches  her 
tail. 

"  You  are  still  young  to  say  a  thing  like  that  to 


A  Troublesome  Visitor  293 

me,"  he  said.  "  You  will  have  to  answer  to  God 
for  those  words.  Whom  may  your  people  be? 
Where  do  you  come  from?  " 

"  I  am  from  Vyazovka.  I  am  the  son  of  Nefed 
the  village  elder." 

"  You  have  gone  out  for  sport  with  your  gun. 
...  I  used  to  like  sport,  too,  when  I  was  young. 
H'm!  Ah,  our  sins  are  grievous,"  said  Artyom, 
with  a  yawn.  "It's  a  sad  thing!  There  are  few 
good  folks,  but  villains  and  murderers  no  end — 
God  have  mercy  upon  us." 

"  You  seem  to  be  frightened  of  me,  too.   .  .  ." 

"Come,  what  next!  What  should  I  be  afraid 
of  you  for?  I  see.  ...  I  understand.  .  .  .  You 
came  in,  and  not  just  anyhow,  but  you  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross,  you  bowed,  all  decent  and  proper. 
...  I  understand.  .  .  .  One  can  give  you  bread. 
...  I  am  a  widower,  I  don't  heat  the  stove,  I  sold 
the  samovar.  ...  I  am  too  poor  to  keep  meat  or 
anything  else,  but  bread  you  are  welcome  to." 

At  that  moment  something  began  growling  under 
the  bench :  the  growl  was  followed  by  a  hiss. 
Artyom  started,  drew  up  his  legs,  and  looked  en- 
quiringly at  the  hunter. 

"  It's  my  dog  worrying  your  cat,"  said  the  hunter. 
"  You  devils!  "  he  shouted  under  the  bench.  "  Lie 
down.  You'll  be  beaten.  I  say,  your  cat's  thin, 
mate!     She  is  nothing  but  skin  and  bone." 

"  She  is  old,  it  is  time  she  was  dead.  ...  So 
you  say  you  are  from  Vyazovka?  " 

"  I  see  you  don't  feed  her.  Though  she's  a  cat 
she's  a  creature  .  .  .  every  breathing  thing.  You 
should  have  pity  on  her!  " 


294  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  You  are  a  queer  lot  in  Vyazovka,"  Artyom 
went  on,  as  though  not  listening.  "  The  church 
has  been  robbed  twice  in  one  year.  .  .  .  To  think 
that  there  are  such  wicked  men !  So  they  fear 
neither  man  nor  God !  To  steal  what  is  the  Lord's  ! 
Hanging's  too  good  for  them!  In  old  days  the 
governors  used  to  have  such  rogues  flogged." 

"  However  you  punish,  whether  it  is  with  flog- 
ging or  anything  else,  it  will  be  no  good,  you  will 
not  knock  the  wickedness  out  of  a  wicked  man." 

"Save  and  preserve  us,  Queen  of  Heaven!" 
The  forester  sighed  abruptly.  "  Save  us  from  all 
enemies  and  evildoers.  Last  week  at  Volovy  Zai- 
mishtchy,  a  mower  struck  another  on  the  chest  with 
his  scythe  ...  he  killed  him  outright!  And  what 
was  it  all  about,  God  bless  me !  One  mower  came 
out  of  the  tavern  .  .  .  drunk.  The  other  met  him, 
drunk  too." 

The  young  man,  who  had  been  listening  atten- 
tively, suddenly  started,  and  his  face  grew  tense  as 
he  listened. 

"  Stay,"  he  said,  interrupting  the  forester.  "  I 
fancy  someone  is  shouting." 

The  hunter  and  the  forester  fell  to  listening  with 
their  eyes  fixed  on  the  window.  Through  the  noise 
of  the  forest  they  could  hear  sounds  such  as  the 
strained  ear  can  always  distinguish  in  every  storm, 
so  that  it  was  difficult  to  make  out  whether  people 
were  calling  for  help  or  whether  the  wind  was  wail- 
ing in  the  chimney.  But  the  wind  tore  at  the  roof, 
tapped  at  the  paper  on  the  window,  and  brought  a 
distinct  shout  of  "  Help!  " 

"Talk  of  your  murderers,"  said  the  hunter,  turn- 


A  Troublesome  Visitor  295 

ing  pale  and  getting  up.  "  Someone  is  being 
robbed!" 

11  Lord  have  mercy  on  us,"  whispered  the  for- 
ester, and  he,  too,  turned  pale  and  got  up. 

The  hunter  looked  aimlessly  out  of  window  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  hut. 

"What  a  night,  what  a  night!"  he  muttered. 
11  You  can't  see  your  hand  before  your  face !  The 
very  time  for  a  robbery.  Do  you  hear?  There  is 
a  shout  again." 

The  forester  looked  at  the  ikon  and  from  the 
ikon  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  hunter,  and  sank  on 
to  the  bench,  collapsing  like  a  man  terrified  by 
sudden  bad  news. 

"  Good  Christian,"  he  said  in  a  tearful  voice, 
"  you  might  go  into  the  passage  and  bolt  the  door. 
And  we  must  put  out  the  light." 

"What  for?" 

"  By  ill-luck  they  may  find  their  way  here.  .  .  . 
Oh,  our  sins !  " 

"  We  ought  to  be  going,  and  you  talk  of  bolting 
the  door !  You  are  a  clever  one !  Are  you 
coming?  " 

The  hunter  threw  his  gun  over  his  shoulder  and 
picked  up  his  cap. 

"  Get  ready,  take  your  gun.  Hey,  Flerka,  here," 
he  called  to  his  dog.     "  Flerka!  " 

A  dog  with  long  frayed  ears,  a  mongrel  between 
a  setter  and  a  house-dog,  came  out  from  under  the 
bench.  He  stretched  himself  by  his  master's  feet 
and  wagged  his  tail. 

"Why  are  you  sitting  there?"  cried  the  hunter 


296  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

to  the  forester.  "  You  mean  to  say  you  are  not 
going?  " 

"Where?" 

"  To  help !  " 

"How  can  I?"  said  the  forester  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand,  shuddering  all  over.  "  I  can't  bother 
about  it!  " 

"  Why  won't  you  come?  " 

11  After  talking  of  such  dreadful  things  I  won't 
stir  a  step  into  the  darkness.  Bless  them!  And 
what  should  I  go  for?  " 

"What  are  you  afraid  of?  Haven't  you  got  a 
gun?  Let  us  go,  please  do.  It's  scaring  to  go 
alone;  it  will  be  more  cheerful,  the  two  of  us.  Do 
you  hear?    There  was  a  shout  again.     Get  up!  " 

"Whatever  do  you  think  of  me,  lad?"  wailed 
the  forester.  "  Do  you  think  I  am  such  a  fool  to 
go  straight  to  my  undoing?  " 

"  So  you  are  not  coming?  " 

The  forester  did  not  answer.  The  dog,  probably 
hearing  a  human  cry,  gave  a  plaintive  whine. 

"  Are  you  coming,  I  ask  you?  "  cried  the  hunter, 
rolling  his  eyes  angrily. 

"  You  do  keep  on,  upon  my  word,"  said  the  for- 
ester with  annoyance.     "  Go  yourself." 

"  Ugh!  .  .  .  low  cur,"  growled  the  hunter,  turn- 
ing towards  the  door.     "  Flerka,  here  !  " 

He  went  out  and  left  the  door  open.  The  wind 
flew  into  the  hut.  The  flame  of  the  candle  flickered 
uneasily,  flared  up,  and  went  out. 

As  he  bolted  the  door  after  the  hunter,  the  for- 
ester saw  the  puddles  in  the  track,  the  nearest  pine- 
trees,  and  the  retreating  figure  of  his  guest  lighted 


A  Troublesome  Visitor  297 

up  by  a  flash  of  lightning.  Far  away  he  heard  the 
rumble  of  thunder. 

11  Holy,  holy,  holy,"  whispered  the  forester, 
making  haste  to  thrust  the  thick  bolt  into  the  great 
iron  rings.    "  What  weather  the  Lord  has  sent  us !  " 

Going  back  into  the  room,  he  felt  his  way  to  the 
stove,  lay  down,  and  covered  himself  from  head  to 
foot.  Lying  under  the  sheepskin  and  listening  in- 
tently, he  could  no  longer  hear  the  human  cry,  but 
the  peals  of  thunder  kept  growing  louder  and  more 
prolonged.  He  could  hear  the  big  wind-lashed  rain- 
drops pattering  angrily  on  the  panes  and  on  the 
paper  of  the  window. 

"  He's  gone  on  a  fool's  errand,"  he  thought,  pic- 
turing the  hunter  soaked  with  rain  and  stumbling 
over  the  tree-stumps.  "  I  bet  his  teeth  are  chatter- 
ing with  terror!  " 

Not  more  than  ten  minutes  later  there  was  a 
sound  of  footsteps,  followed  by  a  loud  knock  at  the 
door. 

"Who's  there?"  cried  the  forester. 

"  It's  I,"  he  heard  the  young  man's  voice.  "  Un- 
fasten the  door." 

The  forester  clambered  down  from  the  stove,  felt 
for  the  candle,  and,  lighting  it,  went  to  the  door. 
The  hunter  and  his  dog  were  drenched  to  the  skin. 
They  had  come  in  for  the  heaviest  of  the  downpour, 
and  now  the  water  ran  from  them  as  from  washed 
clothes  before  they  have  been  wrung  out. 

"  What  was  it?  "  asked  the  forester. 

"  A  peasant  woman  driving  in  a  cart;  she  had  got 
off    the    road  .  .  ."    answered    the    young    man, 


298  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

struggling  with  his  breathlessness.  "  She  was 
caught  in  a  thicket." 

"Ah,  the  silly  thing!  She  was  frightened,  then. 
.  .  .  Well,  did  you  put  her  on  the  road?  " 

"  I  don't  care  to  talk  to  a  scoundrel  like  you." 

The  young  man  flung  his  wet  cap  on  the  bench  and 
went  on : 

"  I  know  now  that  you  are  a  scoundrel  and  the 
lowest  of  men.  And  you  a  keeper,  too,  getting  a 
salary!     You  blackguard!  " 

The  forester  slunk  with  a  guilty  step  to  the  stove, 
cleared  his  throat,  and  lay  down.  The  young  man 
sat  on  the  bench,  thought  a  little,  and  lay  down  on 
it  full  length.  Not  long  afterwards  he  got  up,  put 
out  the  candle,  and  lay  down  again.  During  a  par- 
ticularly loud  clap  of  thunder  he  turned  over,  spat 
on  the  floor,  and  growled  out: 

"  He's  afraid.  .  .  .  And  what  if  the  woman  were 
being  murdered?  Whose  business  is  it  to  defend 
her?  And  he  an  old  man,  too,  and  a  Christian. 
.  .   .   He's  a  pig  and  nothing  else." 

The  forester  cleared  his  throat  and  heaved  a 
deep  sigh.  Somewhere  in  the  darkness  Flerka  shook 
his  wet  coat  vigorously,  which  sent  drops  of  water 
flying  about  all  over  the  room. 

"  So  you  wouldn't  care  if  the  woman  were  mur- 
dered?" the  hunter  went  on.  "Well — strike  me, 
God — I  had  no  notion  you  were  that  sort  of 
man.   .   .   ." 

A  silence  followed.  The  thunderstorm  was  by 
now  over  and  the  thunder  came  from  far  away,  but 
it  was  still  raining. 

"  And  suppose  it  hadn't  been  a  woman  but  you 


A  Troublesome  Visitor  299 

shouting  *  Help !  '  ?  "  said  the  hunter,  breaking  the 
silence.  "  How  would  you  feel,  you  beast,  if  no  one 
ran  to  your  aid?  You  have  upset  me  with  your 
meanness,  plague  take  you !  " 

After  another  long  interval  the  hunter  said: 

"  You  must  have  money  to  be  afraid  of  people ! 
A  man  who  is  poor  is  not  likely  to  be  afraid.  .  .  ." 

"  For  those  words  you  will  answer  before  God," 
Artyom  said  hoarsely  from  the  stove.  "  I  have  no 
money." 

"I  dare  say!  Scoundrels  always  have  money. 
.  .  .  Why  are  you  afraid  of  people,  then?  So  you 
must  have !  I'd  like  to  take  and  rob  you  for  spite, 
to  teach  you  a  lesson!  .  .  ." 

Artyom  slipped  noiselessly  from  the  stove,  lighted 
a  candle,  and  sat  down  under  the  holy  image.  He 
was  pale  and  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  the  hunter. 

11  Here,  I'll  rob  you,"  said  the  hunter,  getting  up. 
"What  do  you  think  about  it?  Fellows  like  you 
want  a  lesson.  Tell  me,  where  is  your  money 
hidden?" 

Artyom  drew  his  legs  up  under  him  and  blinked. 

"What  are  you  wriggling  for?  Where  is  your 
money  hidden?  Have  you  lost  your  tongue,  you 
fool?     Why  don't  you  answer?  " 

The  young  man  jumped  up  and  went  up  to  the 
forester. 

"  He  is  blinking  like  an  owl!  Well?  Give  me 
your  money,  or  I  will  shoot  you  with  my  gun." 

"Why  do  you  keep  on  at  me?"  squealed  the 
forester,  and  big  tears  rolled  from  his  eyes. 
"What's  the  reason  of  it?  God  sees  all!  You 
will  have  to  answer,  for  every  word  you  say,  to 


300  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

God.  You  have  no  right  whatever  to  ask  for  my 
money." 

The  young  man  looked  at  Artyom's  tearful  face, 
frowned,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  hut,  then 
angrily  clapped  his  cap  on  his  head  and  picked  up 
his  gun. 

"  Ugh !  .  .  .  ugh !  ...  it  makes  me  sick  to  look 
at  you,"  he  filtered  through  his  teeth.  "  I  can't 
bear  the  sight  of  you.  I  won't  sleep  in  your  house, 
anyway.     Good-bye!     Hey,  Flerka !  " 

The  door  slammed  and  the  troublesome  visitor 
went  out  with  his  dog.  .  .  .  Artyom  bolted  the 
door  after  him,  crossed  himself,  and  lay  down. 


AN  ACTOR'S  END 


AN  ACTOR'S  END 

Shtchiptsov,  the  "  heavy  father "  and  "  good- 
hearted  simpleton,"  a  tall  and  thick-set  old  man,  not 
so  much  distinguished  by  his  talents  as  an  actor  as 
by  his  exceptional  physical  strength,  had  a  desperate 
quarrel  with  the  manager  during  the  performance, 
and  just  when  the  storm  of  words  was  at  its  height 
felt  as  though  something  had  snapped  in  his  chest. 
Zhukov,  the  manager,  as  a  rule  began  at  the  end  of 
every  heated  discussion  to  laugh  hysterically  and  to 
fall  into  a  swoon;  on  this  occasion,  however, 
Shtchiptsov  did  not  remain  for  this  climax,  but  hur- 
ried home.  The  high  words  and  the  sensation  of 
something  ruptured  in  his  chest  so  agitated  him  as 
he  left  the  theatre  that  he  forgot  to  wash  off  his 
paint,  and  did  nothing  but  take  off  his  beard. 

When  he  reached  his  hotel  room,  Shtchiptsov 
spent  a  long  time  pacing  up  and  down,  then  sat  down 
on  the  bed,  propped  his  head  on  his  fists,  and  sank 
into  thought.  He  sat  like  that  without  stirring  or 
uttering  a  sound  till  two  o'clock  the  next  afternoon, 
when  Sigaev,  the  comic  man,  walked  into  his  room. 

"  Why  is  it  you  did  not  come  to  the  rehearsal, 
Booby  Ivanitch?"  the  comic  man  began,  panting 
and  filling  the  room  with  fumes  of  vodka.  "  Where 
have  you  been?  " 

Shtchiptsov  made  no  answer,  but  simply  stared  at 
303 


304  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the   comic  man  with   lustreless   eyes,   under  which 
there  were  smudges  of  paint. 

"  You  might  at  least  have  washed  your  phiz !  " 
Sigaev  went  on.  "You  are  a  disgraceful  sight! 
Have  you  been  boozing,  or  .  .  .  are  you  ill,  or 
what?  But  why  don't  you  speak?  I  am  asking 
you  :  are  you  ill?  " 

Shtchiptsov  did  not  speak.  In  spite  of  the  paint 
on  his  face,  the  comic  man  could  not  help  noticing 
his  striking  pallor,  the  drops  of  sweat  on  his  fore- 
head, and  the  twitching  of  his  lips.  His  hands  and 
feet  were  trembling  too,  and  the  whole  huge  figure 
of  the  "  good-natured  simpleton  "  looked  somehow 
crushed  and  flattened.  The  comic  man  took  a  rapid 
glance  round  the  room,  but  saw  neither  bottle  nor 
flask  nor  any  other  suspicious  vessel. 

"I  say,  Mishutka,  you  know  you  are  ill!"  he 
said  in  a  flutter.  "Strike  me  dead,  you  are  ill! 
You  don't  look  yourself  !  " 

Shtchiptsov  remained  silent  and  stared  discon- 
solately at  the  floor. 

"  You  must  have  caught  cold,"  said  Sigaev,  tak- 
ing him  by  the  hand.  "  Oh,'  dear,  how  hot  your 
hands  are  !    What's  the  trouble?  " 

"  I  wa-ant  to  go  home,"  muttered  Shtchiptsov. 

"  But  you  are  at  home  now,  aren't  you?  " 

"  No.   .  .   .  To  Vyazma.   .   .   ." 

"  Oh,  my,  anywhere  else !  It  would  take  you 
three  years  to  get  to  your  Vyazma.  .  .  .  What? 
do  you  want  to  go  and  see  your  daddy  and  mummy? 
I'll  be  bound,  they've  kicked  the  bucket  years  ago, 
and  you  won't  find  their  graves.   .   .  ." 

"  My  ho-ome's  there." 


An  Actor's  End  305 

11  Come,  it's  no  good  giving  way  to  the  dismal 
dumps.  These  neurotic  feelings  are  the  limit,  old 
man.  You  must  get  well,  for  you  have  to  play 
Mitka  in  '  The  Terrible  Tsar  '  to-morrow.  There 
is  nobody  else  to  do  it.  Drink  something  hot  and 
take  some  castor-oil?  Have  you  got  the  money  for 
some  castor-oil?     Or,  stay,  I'll  run  and  buy  some." 

The  comic  man  fumbled  in  his  pockets,  found  a 
fifteen-kopeck  piece,  and  ran  to  the  chemist's.  A 
quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  came  back. 

"  Come,  drink  it,"  he  said,  holding  the  bottle  to 
the  "  heavy  father's  "  mouth.  "  Drink  it  straight 
out  of  the  bottle.  .  .  .  All  at  a  go !  That's  the 
way.  .  .  .  Now  nibble  at  a  clove  that  your  very  soul 
mayn't  stink  of  the  filthy  stuff." 

The  comic  man  sat  a  little  longer  with  his  sick 
friend,  then  kissed  him  tenderly,  and  went  away. 
Towards  evening  the  jeune  premier,  Brama-Glinsky, 
ran  in  to  see  Shtchiptsov.  The  gifted  actor  was 
wearing  a  pair  of  prunella  boots,  had  a  glove  on  his 
left  hand,  was  smoking  a  cigar,  and  even  smelt  of 
heliotrope,  yet  nevertheless  he  strongly  suggested  a 
traveller  cast  away  in  some  land  in  which  there  were 
neither  baths  nor  laundresses  nor  tailors.   .  .   . 

"I  hear  you  are  ill?"  he  said  to  Shtchiptsov, 
twirling  round  on  his  heel.  "  What's  wrong  with 
you?     What's  wrong  with  you,  really?  .  .  ." 

Shtchiptsov  did  not  speak  nor  stir. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?  Do  you  feel  giddy? 
Oh  well,  don't  talk,  I  won't  pester  you  .  .  .  don't 
talk.   .  .   ." 

Brama-Glinsky  (that  was  his  stage  name,  in  his 
passport  he  was  called  Guskov)  walked  away  to  the 


306  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

window,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  fell  to 
gazing  into  the  street.  Before  his  eyes  stretched  an 
immense  waste,  bounded  by  a  grey  fence  beside 
which  ran  a  perfect  forest  of  last  year's  burdocks. 
Beyond  the  waste  ground  was  a  dark,  deserted  fac- 
tory, with  windows  boarded  up.  A  belated  jackdaw 
was  flying  round  the  chimney.  This  dreary,  lifeless 
scene  was  beginning  to  be  veiled  in  the  dusk  of 
evening. 

"  I  must  go  home !  "  the  jeune  premier  heard. 

11  Where  is  home?  " 

"  To  Vyazma  ...  to  my  home.  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  a  thousand  miles  to  Vyazma  .  .  .  my 
boy,"  sighed  Brama-Glinsky,  drumming  on  the 
window-pane.  "  And  what  do  you  want  to  go  to 
Vyazma  for?  " 

"  I  want  to  die  there." 

"What  next!  Now  he's  dying!  He  has  fallen 
ill  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  already  he 
fancies  that  his  last  hour  is  come.  .  .  .  No,  my 
boy,  no  cholera  will  carry  off  a  buffalo  like  you. 
You'll  live  to  be  a  hundred.  .  .  .  Where's  the 
pain?" 

"  There's  no  pain,  but  I  .   .   .   feel  .  .   ." 

"  You  don't  feel  anything,  it  all  comes  from  being 
too  healthy.  Your  surplus  energy  upsets  you.  You 
ought  to  get  jolly  tight — drink,  you  know,  till  your 
whole  inside  is  topsy-turvy.  Getting  drunk  is  won- 
derfully restoring.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  how 
screwed  you  were  at  Rostov  on  the  Don?  Good 
Lord,  the  very  thought  of  it  is  alarming!  Sashka 
and  I  together  could  only  just  carry  in  the  barrel, 
and  you  emptied  it  alone,  and  even  sent  for  rum 


An  Actor's  End  307 

afterwards.  .  .  .  You  got  so  drunk  you  were  catch- 
ing devils  in  a  sack  and  pulled  a  lamp-post  up  by  the 
roots.  Do  you  remember?  Then  you  went  off  to 
beat  the  Greeks.  .  .  ." 

Under  the  influence  of  these  agreeable  reminis- 
cences Shtchiptsov's  face  brightened  a  little  and  his 
eyes  began  to  shine. 

"  And  do  you  remember  how  I  beat  Savoikin  the 
manager?"  he  muttered,  raising  his  head.  "But 
there !  I've  beaten  thirty-three  managers  in  my 
time,  and  I  can't  remember  how  many  smaller  fry. 
And  what  managers  they  were !  Men  who  would 
not  permit  the  very  winds  to  touch  them !  I've 
beaten  two  celebrated  authors  and  one  painter!  " 

"  What  are  you  crying  for?  " 

"  At  Kherson  I  killed  a  horse  with  my  fists.  And 
at  Taganrog  some  roughs  fell  upon  me  at  night, 
fifteen  of  them.  I  took  off  their  caps  and  they  fol- 
lowed me,  begging:  '  Uncle,  give  us  back  our  caps.' 
That's  how  I  used  to  go  on." 

"  What  are  you  crying  for,  then,  you  silly?  " 

"  But  now  it's  all  over  ...  I  feel  it.  If  only 
I  could  go  to  Vyazma  !  " 

A  pause  followed.  After  a  silence  Shtchiptsov 
suddenly  jumped  up  and  seized  his  cap.  He  looked 
distraught. 

"  Good-bye  !  I  am  going  to  Vyazma  !  "  he  articu- 
lated, staggering. 

"  And  the  money  for  the  journey?  " 

"H'm!   .   .   .  I  shall  go  on  foot!" 

"  You  are  crazy.   .   .   ." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  probably  be- 
cause the  same  thought — of  the  boundless  plains, 


308  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  unending  forests  and  swamps — struck  both  of 
them  at  once. 

"  Well,  I  see  you  have  gone  off  your  head,"  the 
jeune  premier  commented.  "  I'll  tell  you  what,  old 
man.  .  .  .  First  thing,  go  to  bed,  then  drink  some 
brandy  and  tea  to  put  you  into  a  sweat.  And  some 
castor-oil,  of  course.  Stay,  where  am  I  to  get  some 
brandy?  " 

Brama-Glinsky  thought  a  minute,  then  made  up 
his  mind  to  go  to  a  shopkeeper  called  Madame 
Tsitrinnikov  to  try  and  get  it  from  her  on  tick:  who 
knows?  perhaps  the  woman  would  feel  for  them  and 
let  them  have  it.  The  jeune  premier  went  off,  and 
half  an  hour  later  returned  with  a  bottle  of  brandy 
and  some  castor-oil.  Shtchiptsov  was  sitting  mo- 
tionless, as  before,  on  the  bed,  gazing  dumbly  at  the 
floor.  He  drank  the  castor-oil  offered  him  by  his 
friend  like  an  automaton,  with  no  consciousness  of 
what  he  was  doing.  Like  an  automaton  he  sat  after- 
wards at  the  table,  and  drank  tea  and  brandy;  me- 
chanically he  emptied  the  whole  bottle  and  let  the 
jeune  premier  put  him  to  bed.  The  latter  covered 
him  up  with  a  quilt  and  an  overcoat,  advised  him  to 
get  into  a  perspiration,  and  went  away. 

The  night  came  on;  Shtchiptsov  had  drunk  a 
great  deal  of  brandy,  but  he  did  not  sleep.  He  lay 
motionless  under  the  quilt  and  stared  at  the  dark 
ceiling;  then,  seeing  the  moon  looking  in  at  the  win- 
dow, he  turned  his  eyes  from  the  ceiling  towards  the 
companion  of  the  earth,  and  lay  so  with  open  eyes 
till  the  morning.  At  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning 
Zhukov,  the  manager,  ran  in. 

"  What  has  put  it  into  your  head  to  be  ill,  my 


An  Actor's  End  309 

angel?"  he  cackled,  wrinkling  up  his  nose.  "  Aie, 
aie !  A  man  with  your  physique  has  no  business  to 
be  ill !  For  shame,  for  shame !  Do  you  know,  I 
was  quite  frightened.  '  Can  our  conversation  have 
had  such  an  effect  on  him?  '  I  wondered.  My  dear 
soul,  I  hope  it's  not  through  me  you've  fallen  ill ! 
You  know  you  gave  me  as  good  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  And, 
besides,  comrades  can  never  get  on  without  words. 
You  called  me  all  sorts  of  names  .  .  .  and  have 
gone  at  me  with  your  fists  too,  and  yet  I  am  fond  of 
you !  Upon  my  soul,  I  am.  I  respect  you  and  am 
fond  of  you !  Explain,  my  angel,  why  I  am  so  fond 
of  you.  You  are  neither  kith  nor  kin  nor  wife,  but 
as  soon  as  I  heard  you  had  fallen  ill  it  cut  me  to  the 
heart." 

Zhukov  spent  a  long  time  declaring  his  affection, 
then  fell  to  kissing  the  invalid,  and  finally  was  so 
overcome  by  his  feelings  that  he  began  laughing 
hysterically,  and  was  even  meaning  to  fall  into  a 
swoon,  but,  probably  remembering  that  he  was  not 
at  home  nor  at  the  theatre,  put  off  the  swoon  to  a 
more  convenient  opportunity  and  went  away. 

Soon  after  him  Adabashev,  the  tragic  actor,  a 
dingy,  short-sighted  individual  who  talked  through 
his  nose,  made  his  appearance.  .  .  .  For  a  long 
while  he  looked  at  Shtchiptsov,  for  a  long  while  he 
pondered,  and  at  last  he  made  a  discovery. 

"  Do  you  know  what,  Mifa?"  he  said,  pro- 
nouncing through  his  nose  "  f  "  instead  of  "  sh," 
and  assuming  a  mysterious  expression.  "  Do  you 
know  what?  You  ought  to  have  a  dose  of  castor- 
oil!" 

Shtchiptsov  was  silent.     He  remained  silent,  too, 


310  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

a  little  later  as  the  tragic  actor  poured  the  loath- 
some oil  into  his  mouth.  Two  hours  later  Yev- 
lampy,  or,  as  the  actors  for  some  reason  called  him, 
Rigoletto,  the  hairdresser  of  the  company,  came  into 
the  room.  He  too,  like  the  tragic  man,  stared  at 
Shtchiptsov  for  a  long  time,  then  sighed  like  a  steam- 
engine,  and  slowly  and  deliberately  began  untying  a 
parcel  he  had  brought  with  him.  In  it  there  were 
twenty  cups  and  several  little  flasks. 

"  You  should  have  sent  for  me  and  I  would  have 
cupped  you  long  ago,"  he  said,  tenderly  baring 
Shtchiptsov's  chest.     "  It  is  easy  to  neglect  illness." 

Thereupon  Rigoletto  stroked  the  broad  chest  of 
the  "heavy  father"  and  covered  it  all  over  with 
suction  cups. 

"  Yes  .  .  ."  he  said,  as  after  this  operation  he 
packed  up  his  paraphernalia,  crimson  with  Shtchipt- 
sov's blood.  "  You  should  have  sent  for  me,  and 
I  would  have  come.  .  .  .  You  needn't  trouble  about 
payment.  ...  I  do  it  from  sympathy.  Where  are 
you  to  get  the  money  if  that  idol  won't  pay  you? 
Now,  please  take  these  drops.  They  are  nice  drops ! 
And  now  you  must  have  a  dose  of  this  castor-oil. 
It's  the  real  thing.  That's  right!  I  hope  it  will  do 
you  good.     Well,  now,  good-bye.   .   .   ." 

Rigoletto  took  his  parcel  and  withdrew,  pleased 
that  he  had  been  of  assistance  to  a  fellow-creature. 

The  next  morning  Sigaev,  the  comic  man,  going 
in  to  see  Shtchiptsov,  found  him  in  a  terrible  con- 
dition. He  was  lying  under  his  coat,  breathing  in 
gasps,  while  his  eyes  strayed  over  the  ceiling.  In 
his  hands  he  was  crushing  convulsively  the  crumpled 
quilt. 


An  Actor's  End  311 

"  To  Vyazma !  "  he  whispered,  when  he  saw  the 
comic  man.     "  To  Vyazma." 

"  Come,  I  don't  like  that,  old  man !  "  said  the 
comic  man,  flinging  up  his  hands.  "  You  see  .  .  . 
you  see  .  .  .  you  see,  old  man,  that's  not  the 
thing!  Excuse  me,  but  .  .  .  it's  positively 
stupid.   .  .  ." 

"  To  go  to  Vyazma  !    My  God,  to  Vyazma !  " 

"  I  ...  I  did  not  expect  it  of  you,"  the  comic 
man  muttered,  utterly  distracted.  "  What  the 
deuce  do  you  want  to  collapse  like  this  for?  Aie 
.  .  .  aie  .  .  .  aie!  .  .  .  that's  not  the  thing.  A 
giant  as  tall  as  a  watch-tower,  and  crying.  Is  it 
the  thing  for  actors  to  cry?  " 

"  No  wife  nor  children,"  muttered  Shtchiptsov. 
"  I  ought  not  to  have  gone  for  an  actor,  but  have 
stayed  at  Vyazma.  My  life  has  been  wasted, 
Semyon !    Oh,  to  be  in  Vyazma  !  " 

"  Aie  ...  aie  ...  aie !..  .  that's  not  the 
thing!  You  see,  it's  stupid  .  .  .  contemptible 
indeed!" 

Recovering  his  composure  and  setting  his  feelings 
in  order,  Sigaev  began  comforting  Shtchiptsov,  tell- 
ing him  untruly  that  his  comrades  had  decided  to 
send  him  to  the  Crimea  at  their  expense,  and  so  on, 
but  the  sick  man  did  not  listen  and  kept  muttering 
about  Vyazma.  ...  At  last,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand,  the  comic  man  began  talking  about  Vyazma 
himself  to  comfort  the  invalid. 

11  It's  a  fine  town,"  he  said  soothingly,  "  a  capital 
town,  old  man!  It's  famous  for  its  cakes.  The 
cakes  are  classical,  but — between  ourselves — h'm ! — 
they  are  a  bit  groggy.     For  a  whole  week  after 


312  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

eating  them  I  was  .  .  .  h'm!  .  .  .  But  what  is  fine 
there  is  the  merchants!  They  are  something  like 
merchants.  When  they  treat  you  they  do  treat 
you!" 

The  comic  man  talked  while  Shtchiptsov  listened 
in  silence  and  nodded  his  head  approvingly. 

Towards  evening  he  died. 


THE  TALES  OF  CHEKHOV 
THE  WIFE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd, 

TORONTO 


THE  WIFE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

ANTON  CHEKHOV 


FROM  THE  RUSSIAN  BY 

CONSTANCE  GARNETT 


WILLEY  BOOK  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES   OF    AMERICA 


COPYRIflHT,    1918 

By  THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up   and  electrotyped.      Published,   A£arch,   1918 


FERRIS    PRINTING    COMPANY 
NEW  YORK    CITY 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Wife 3 

Difficult  People 73 

The  Grasshopper 89 

A  Dreary  Story 129 

The  Privy  Councillor 219 

The  Man  in  a  Case 247 

Gooseberries 269 

About  Love 287 

The  Lottery  Ticket 303 


THE  WIFE 


THE  TALES  OF  CHEKHOV 

THE  WIFE 

I 

I  received  the  following  letter: 

"  Dear  Sir,  Pavel  Andreitch  ! 

"  Not  far  from  you  —  that  is  to  say,  in  the 
village  of  Pestrovo  —  very  distressing  incidents  are 
taking  place,  concerning  which  I  feel  it  my  duty  to 
write  to  you.  All  the  peasants  of  that  village  sold 
their  cottages  and  all  their  belongings,  and  set  off 
for  the  province  of  Tomsk,  but  did  not  succeed  in 
getting  there,  and  have  come  back.  Here,  of 
course,  they  have  nothing  now;  everything  belongs 
to  other  people.  They  have  settled  three  or  four 
families  in  a  hut,  so  that  there  are  no  less  than  fif- 
teen persons  of  both  sexes  in  each  hut,  not  counting 
the  young  children;  and  the  long  and  the  short  of 
it  is,  there  is  nothing  to  eat.  There  is  famine  and 
there  is  a  terrible  pestilence  of  hunger,  or  spotted, 
typhus;  literally  everv  one  is  stricken.  The  doctor's 
assistant  says  one  goes  into  a  cottage  and  what  does 
one  see?  Every  one  is  sick,  everv  one  delirious, 
some  laughing,  others  frantic;  the  huts  are  filthy; 
there  is  no  one  to  fetch  them  water,  no  one  to  give 

3 


4  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

them  a  drink,  and  nothing  to  eat  but  frozen  pota- 
toes. What  can  Sobol  (our  Zemstvo  doctor)  and 
his  lady  assistant  do  when  more  than  medicine  the 
peasants  need  bread  which  they  have  not  ?  The  Dis- 
trict Zemstvo  refuses  to  assist  them,  on  the  ground 
that  their  names  have  been  taken  oft  the  register  of 
this  district,  and  that  they  are  now  reckoned  as  in- 
habitants of  Tomsk;  and,  besides,  the  Zemstvo  has 
no  money. 

"  Laying  these  facts  before  you,  and  knowing 
your  humanity,  I  beg  you  not  to  refuse  immediate 
help. 

"  Your  well-wisher." 

Obviously  the  letter  was  written  by  the  doctor 
with  the  animal  name  *  or  his  lady  assistant. 
Zemstvo  doctors  and  their  assistants  go  on  for  years 
growing  more  and  more  convinced  every  day  that 
they  can  do  nothing,  and  yet  continue  to  receive  their 
salaries  from  people  who  are  living  upon  frozen  po- 
tatoes, and  consider  they  have  a  right  to  judge 
whether  I  am  humane  or  not. 

Worried  by  the  anonymous  letter  and  by  the  fact 
that  peasants  came  every  morning  to  the  servants' 
kitchen  and  went  down  on  their  knees  there,  and  that 
twenty  sacks  of  rye  had  been  stolen  at  night  out  of 
the  barn,  the  wall  having  first  been  broken  in,  and 
by  the  general  depression  which  was  fostered  by  con- 
versations, newspapers,  and  horrible  weather  — 
worried  by  all  this,  I  worked  listlessly  and  ineffec- 
tively.    I  was  writing  "A  History  of  Railways"; 

1  Sobol  in  Russian  means  "sable-marten." — Translator's  Note. 


The  Wife  '5 

I  had  to  read  a  great  number  of  Russian  and  foreign 
books,  pamphlets,  and  articles  in  the  magazines,  to 
make  calculations,  to  refer  to  logarithms,  to  think 
and  to  write;  then  again  to  read,  calculate,  and 
think;  but  as  soon  as  I  took  up  a  book  or  began  to 
think,  my  thoughts  were  in  a  muddle,  my  eyes  began 
blinking,  I  would  get  up  from  the  table  with  a  sigh 
and  begin  walking  about  the  big  rooms  of  my  de- 
serted country-house.  When  I  was  tired  of  walking 
about  I  would  stand  still  at  my  study  window,  and, 
looking  across  the  wide  courtyard,  over  the  pond  and 
the  bare  young  birch-trees  and  the  great  fields  cov- 
ered with  recently  fallen,  thawing  snow,  I  saw  on  a 
low  hill  on  the  horizon  a  group  of  mud-coloured 
huts  from  which  a  black  muddy  road  ran  down  in 
an  irregular  streak  through  the  white  field.  That 
was  Pestrovo,  concerning  which  my  anonymous  cor- 
respondent had  written  to  me.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  the  crows  who,  foreseeing  rain  or  snowy  weather, 
floated  cawing  over  the  pond  and  the  fields,  and  the 
tapping  in  the  carpenter's  shed,  this  bit  of  the  world 
about  which  such  a  fuss  was  being  made  would  have 
seemed  like  the  Dead  Sea;  it  was  all  so  still,  motion- 
less, lifeless,  and  dreary! 

My  uneasiness  hindered  me  from  working  and 
concentrating  myself;  I  did  not  know  what  it  was, 
and  chose  to  believe  it  was  disappointment.  I  had 
actually  given  up  my  post  in  the  Department  of 
Ways  and  Communications,  and  had  come  here  into 
the  country  expressly  to  live  in  peace  and  to  devote 
myself  to  writing  on  social  questions.  It  had  long 
been  my  cherished  dream.     And  now  I  had  to  say 


6  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

good-bye  both  to  peace  and  to  literature,  to  give 
up  everything  and  think  only  of  the  peasants.  And 
that  was  inevitable,  because  I  was  convinced  that 
there  was  absloutely  nobody  in  the  district  except 
me  to  help  the  starving.  The  people  surrounding 
me  were  uneducated,  unintellectual,  callous,  for  the 
most  part  dishonest,  or  if  they  were  honest,  they 
were  unreasonable  and  unpractical  like  my  wife, 
for  instance.  It  was  impossible  to  rely  on  such  peo- 
ple, it  was  impossible  to  leave  the  peasants  to  their 
fate,  so  that  the  only  thing  left  to  do  was  to  submit 
to  necessity  and  see  to  setting  the  peasants  to  rights 
myself. 

I  began  by  making  up  my  mind  to  give  five  thou- 
sand roubles  to  the  assistance  of  the  starving  peas- 
ants. And  that  did  not  decrease,  but  only  aggra- 
vated my  uneasiness.  As  I  stood  by  the  window  or 
walked  about  the  rooms  I  was  tormented  by  the 
question  which  had  not  occurred  to  me  before:  how 
this  money  was  to  be  spent.  To  have  bread  bought 
and  to  go  from  hut  to  hut  distributing  it  was  more 
than  one  man  could  do,  to  say  nothing  of  the  risk 
that  in  your  haste  you  might  give  twice  as  much  to 
one  who  was  well-fed  or  to  one  who  was  making 
money  out  of  his  fellows  as  to  the  hungry.  I  had 
no  faith  in  the  local  officials.  All  these  district  cap- 
tains and  tax  inspectors  were  young  men,  and  I 
distrusted  them  as  I  do  all  young  people  of  today, 
who  are  materialistic  and  without  ideals.  The  Dis- 
trict Zemstvo,  the  Peasant  Courts,  and  all  the  local 
institutions,  inspired  in  me  not  the  slightest  desire 
to  appeal  to  them  for  assistance.     I  knew  that  all 


The  Wife  7 

these  institutions  who  were  busily  engaged  in  pick- 
ing out  plums  from  the  Zemstvo  and  the  Govern- 
ment pie  had  their  mouths  always  wide  open  for  a 
bite  at  any  other  pie  that  might  turn  up. 

The  idea  occurred  to  me  to  invite  the  neighbour- 
ing landowners  and  suggest  to  them  to  organize 
in  my  house  something  like  a  committee  or  a  centre 
to  which  all  subscriptions  could  be  forwarded,  and 
from  which  assistance  and  instructions  could  be  dis- 
tributed throughout  the  district;  such  an  organiza- 
tion, which  would  render  possible  frequent  consulta- 
tions and  free  control  on  a  big  scale,  would  com- 
pletely meet  my  views.  But  I  imagined  the  lunches, 
the  dinners,  the  suppers  and  the  noise,  the  waste  of 
time,  the  verbosity  and  the  bad  taste  which  that 
mixed  provincial  company  would  inevitably  bring 
into  my  house,  and  I  made  haste  to  reject  my 
idea. 

As  for  the  members  of  my  own  household,  the  last 
thing  I  could  look  for  was  help  or  support  from 
them.  Of  my  father's  household,  of  the  house- 
hold of  my  childhood,  once  a  big  and  noisy  family, 
no  one  remained  but  the  governess  Mademoiselle 
Marie,  or,  as  she  was  now  called,  Marya  Gerasi- 
movna,  an  absolutely  insignificant  person.  She  was 
a  precise  little  old  lady  of  seventy,  who  wore  a 
light  grey  dress  and  a  cap  with  white  ribbons,  and 
looked  like  a  china  doll.  She  always  sat  in  the 
drawing-room  reading. 

Whenever  I  passed  by  her,  she  would  say,  know- 
ing the  reason  for  my  brooding: 

"  What  can  you  expect,  Pasha  ?     I  told  you  how 


8  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

it  would  be  before.     You  can  judge  from  our  serv- 
ants." 

My  wife,  Natalya  Gavrilovna,  lived  on  the  lower 
storey,  all  the  rooms  of  which  she  occupied.  She 
slept,  had  her  meals,  and  received  her  visitors  down- 
stairs in  her  own  rooms,  and  took  not  the  slightest 
interest  in  how  I  dined,  or  slept,  or  whom  I  saw. 
Our  relations  with  one  another  were  simple  and 
not  strained,  but  cold,  empty,  and  dreary  as  rela- 
tions are  between  people  who  have  been  so  long 
estranged,  that  even  living  under  the  same  roof 
gives  no  semblance  of  nearness.  There  was  no 
trace  now  of  the  passionate  and  tormenting  love  — 
at  one  time  sweet,  at  another  bitter  as  wormwood  — 
which  I  had  once  felt  for  Natalya  Gavrilovna. 
There  was  nothing  left,  either,  of  the  outbursts  of 
the  past  —  the  loud  altercations,  upbraidings,  com- 
plaints, and  gusts  of  hatred  which  had  usually  ended 
in  my  wife's  going  abroad  or  to  her  own  people, 
and  in  my  sending  money  in  small  but  frequent  in- 
stalments that  I  might  sting  her  pride  oftener. 
(My  proud  and  sensitive  wife  and  her  family  live 
at  my  expense,  and  much  as  she  would  have  liked 
to  do  so,  my  wife  could  not  refuse  my  money:  that 
afforded  me  satisfaction  and  was  one  comfort  in 
my  sorrow.)  Now  when  we  chanced  to  meet  in 
the  corridor  downstairs  or  in  the  yard,  I  bowed, 
she  smiled  graciously.  We  spoke  of  the  weather, 
said  that  it  seemed  time  to  put  in  the  double  win- 
dows, and  that  some  one  with  bells  on  their  harness 
had  driven  over  the  dam.  And  at  such  times  I  read 
in  her  face:     "  I  am  faithful  to  you  and  am  not  dis- 


The  Wife  9 

gracing  your  good  name  which  you  think  so  much 
about;  you  are  sensible  and  do  not  worry  me;  we 
are  quits." 

I  assured  myself  that  my  love  had  died  long  ago, 
that  I  was  too  much  absorbed  in  my  work  to  think 
seriously  of  my  relations  with  my  wife.  But,  alas  1 
that  was  only  what  I  imagined.  When  my  wife 
talked  aloud  downstairs  I  listened  intently  to  her 
voice,  though  I  could  not  distinguish  one  word. 
When  she  played  the  piano  downstairs  I  stood  up 
and  listened.  When  her  carriage  or  her  saddle- 
horse  was  brought  to  the  door,  I  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  waited  to  see  her  out  of  the  house;  then  I 
watched  her  get  into  her  carriage  or  mount  her 
horse  and  ride  out  of  the  yard.  I  felt  that  there 
was  something  wrong  with  me,  and  was  afraid  the 
expression  of  my  eyes  or  my  face  might  betray  me. 
I  looked  after  my  wife  and  then  watched  for  her  to 
come  back  that  I  might  see  again  from  the  window 
her  face,  her  shoulders,  her  fur  coat,  her  hat.  I 
felt  dreary,  sad,  infinitely  regretful,  and  felt  in- 
clined in  her  absence  to  walk  through  her  rooms, 
and  longed  that  the  problem  that  my  wife  and  I 
had  not  been  able  to  solve  because  our  characters 
were  incompatible,  should  solve  itself  in  the  natural 
way  as  soon  as  possible  —  that  is,  that  this  beauti- 
ful woman  of  twenty-seven  might  make  haste  and 
grow  old,  and  that  my  head  might  be  grey  and  bald. 

One  day  at  lunch  my  bailiff  informed  me  that 
the  Pestrovo  peasants  had  begun  to  pull  the  thatch 
off  the  roofs  to  feed  their  cattle.  Marya  Gerasi- 
movna  looked  at  me  in  alarm  and  perplexity. 


10  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

11  What  can  I  do?  "  I  said  to  her.  "  One  cannot 
fight  single-handed,  and  I  have  never  experienced 
such  loneliness  as  I  do  now.  I  would  give  a  great 
deal  to  find  one  man  in  the  whole  province  on 
whom  I  could  rely." 

"  Invite  Ivan  Ivanitch,"  said  Marya  Gerasi- 
movna. 

"  To  be  sure !  "  I  thought,  delighted.  "  That  is 
an  idea !  C'est  raison,"  I  hummed,  going  to  my 
study  to  write  to  Ivan  Ivanitch.  "  C'est  raison,  c'est 
raison." 

II 

Of  all  the  mass  of  acquaintances  who,  in  this  house 
twenty-five  to  thirty-five  years  ago,  had  eaten,  drunk, 
masqueraded,  fallen  in  love,  married  bored  us  with 
accounts  of  their  splendid  packs  of  hounds  and 
horses,  the  only  one  still  living  was  Ivan  Ivanitch 
Bragin.  At  one  time  he  had  been  very  active,  talk- 
ative, noisy,  and  given  to  falling  in  love,  and  had 
been  famous  for  his  extreme  views  and  for  the  pe- 
culiar charm  of  his  face,  which  fascinated  men  as 
well  as  women;  now  he  was  an  old  man,  had  grown 
corpulent,  and  was  living  out  his  days  with  neither 
views  nor  charm.  He  came  the  day  after  getting 
my  letter,  in  the  evening  just  as  the  samovar  was 
brought  into  the  dining-room  and  little  Marya  Ge- 
rasimovna  had  begun  slicing  the  lemon. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear  fellow,"  I 
said  gaily,  meeting  him.  "  Why,  you  are  stouter 
than  ever." 


The  Wife  11 

"It  isn't  getting  stout;  it's  swelling,"  he  an- 
swered.    "  The  bees  must  have  stung  me." 

With  the  familiarity  of  a  man  laughing  at  his 
own  fatness,  he  put  his  arms  round  my  waist  and 
laid  on  my  breast  his  big  soft  head,  with  the  hair 
combed  down  on  the  forehead  like  a  Little  Rus- 
sian's, and  went  off  into  a  thin,  aged  laugh. 

11  And  you  go  on  getting  younger,"  he  said 
through  his  laugh.  "  I  wonder  what  dye  you  use 
for  your  hair  and  beard;  you  might  let  me  have 
some  of  it."  Sniffing  and  gasping,  he  embraced  me 
and  kissed  me  on  the  cheek.  "  You  might  give  me 
some  of  it,"  he  repeated.  "  Why,  you  are  not 
forty,  are  you?  " 

11  Alas,  I  am  forty-six !  "  I  said,  laughing. 

Ivan  Ivanitch  smelt  of  tallow  candles  and  cook- 
ing, and  that  suited  him.  His  big,  puffy,  slow-mov- 
ing body  was  swathed  in  a  long  frock-coat  like  a 
coachman's  full  coat,  with  a  high  waist,  and  with 
hooks  and  eyes  instead  of  buttons,  and  it  would  have 
been  strange  if  he  had  smelt  of  eau-de-Cologne,  for 
instance.  In  his  long,  unshaven,  bluish  double  chin, 
which  looked  like  a  thistle,  his  goggle  eyes,  his 
shortness  of  breath,  and  in  the  whole  of  his  clumsy, 
slovenly  figure,  in  his  voice,  his  laugh,  and  his  words, 
it  was  difficult  to  recognize  the  graceful,  interest- 
ing talker  who  used  in  old  days  to  make  the  hus- 
bands of  the  district  jealous  on  account  of  their 
wives. 

"I  am  in^  great  need  of  your  assistance,  my 
friend,"  I  said,  when  we  were  sitting  in  the  dining- 
room,   drinking  tea.     "  I   want  to   organize  relief 


12  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

for  the  starving  peasants,  and  I  don't  know  how 
to  set  about  it.  So  perhaps  you  will  be  so  kind  as 
to  advise  me." 

'  Yes,    yes,    yes,"    said    Ivan    Ivanitch,    sighing. 
"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  .  .  ." 

"  I  would  not  have  worried  you,  my  dear  fellow, 
but  really  there  is  no  one  here  but  you  I  can  appeal 
to.     You  know  what  people  are  like  about  here." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  .  .  .  Yes." 

I  thought  that  as  we  were  going  to  have  a  serious, 
business  consultation  in  which  any  one  might  take 
part,  regardless  of  their  position  or  personal  rela- 
tions, why  should  I  not  invite  Natalya  Gavrilovna. 

"  Tres  faciunt  collegium,"  I  said  gaily.  "  What 
if  we  were  to  ask  Natalya  Gavrilovna?  What  do 
you  think?  Fenya,"  I  said,  turning  to  the  maid, 
"  ask  Natalya  Gavrilovna  to  come  upstairs  to  us,  if 
possible  at  once.  Tell  her  it's  a  very  important 
matter." 

A  little  later  Natalya  Gavrilovna  came  in.  I  got 
up  to  meet  her  and  said : 

"  Excuse  us  for  troubling  you,  Natalie.  We  are 
discussing  a  very  important  matter,  and  we  had 
the  happy  thought  that  we  might  take  advantage 
of  your  good  advice,  which  you  will  not  refuse  to 
give  us.      Please  sit  down." 

Ivan  Ivanitch  kissed  her  hand  while  she  kissed 
his  forehead;  then,  when  we  all  sat  down  to  the 
table,  he,  looking  at  her  tearfully  and  blissfully, 
craned  forward  to  her  and  kissed  her  hand  again. 
She  was  dressed  in  black,  her  hair  was  carefully 
arranged,  and  she  smelt  of  fresh  scent.     She  had 


The  Wife  13 

evidently  dressed  to  go  out  or  was  expecting  some- 
body. Coming  into  the  dining-room,  she  held  out 
her  hand  to  me  with  simple  friendliness,  and  smiled 
to  me  as  graciously  as  she  did  to  Ivan  Ivanitch 
—  that  pleased  me;  but  as  she  talked  she  moved  her 
fingers,  often  and  abruptly  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
and  talked  rapidly,  and  this  jerkiness  in  her  words 
and  movements  irritated  me  and  reminded  me  of 
her  native  town  —  Odessa,  where  the  society,  men 
and  women  alike,  had  wearied  me  by  its  bad  taste. 

"  I  want  to  do  something  for  the  famine-stricken 
peasants,"  I  began,  and  after  a  brief  pause  I  went 
on:  "Money,  of  course,  is  a  great  thing,  but  to 
confine  oneslf  to  subscribing  money,  and  with  that 
to  be  satisfied,  would  be  evading  the  worst  of  the 
trouble.  Help  must  take  the  form  of  money,  but 
the  most  important  thing  is  a  proper  and  sound 
organization.  Let  us  think  it  over,  my  friends, 
and  do  something." 

Natalya  Gavrilovna  looked  at  me  inquiringly  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders  as  though  to  say,  "  What 
do  I  know  about  it?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  famine  .  .  ."  muttered  Ivan .  Ivan- 
itch.      "  Certainly  .  .   .  yes." 

"  It's  a  serious  position,"  I  said,  "  and  assistance 
is  needed  as  soon  as  possible.  I  imagine  the  first 
point  among  the  principles  which  we  must  work  out 
ought  to  be  promptitude.  We  must  act  on  the  mili- 
tary principles  of  judgment,  promptitude,  and  en- 
ergy." 

"  Yes,  promptitude  .  .  ."  repeated  Ivan  Ivan- 
itch  in  a  drowsy  and  listless  voice,  as  though  he 


14  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

were  dropping  asleep.  "  Only  one  can't  do  any- 
thing. The  crops  have  failed,  and  so  what's  the 
use  of  all  your  judgment  and  energy?  .  .  .  It's  the 
elements.  .  .  .  You  can't  go  against  God  and 
fate.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  but  that's  what  man  has  a  head  for,  to 
contend  against  the  elements." 

"Eh?  Yes  .  .  .  that's  so,  to  be  sure.  .  .  . 
Yes." 

Ivan  Ivanitch  sneezed  into  his  handkerchief, 
brightened  up,  and  as  though  he  had  just  woken 
up,  looked  round  at  my  wife  and  me. 

"  My  crops  have  failed,  too."  He  laughed  a 
thin  little  laugh  and  gave  a  sly  wink  as  though  this 
were  really  funny.  "  No  money,  no  corn,  and  a 
yard  full  of  labourers  like  Count  Sheremetyev's.  I 
want  to  kick  them  out,  but  I  haven't  the  heart  to." 

Natalya  Gavrilovna  laughed,  and  began  question- 
ing him  about  his  private  affairs.  Her  presence 
gave  me  a  pleasure  such  as  I  had  not  felt  for  a 
long  time,  and  I  was  afraid  to  look  at  her  for  fear 
my  eyes  would  betray  my  secret  feeling.  Our  re- 
lations were  such  that  that  feeling  might  seem  sur- 
prising and  ridiculous. 

She  laughed  and  talked  with  Ivan  Ivanitch  with- 
out being  in  the  least  disturbed  that  she  was  in  my 
room  and  that  I  was  not  laughing. 

"And  so,  my  friends,  what  are  we  to  do?"  I 
asked  after  waiting  for  a  pause.  "  I  suppose  before 
we  do  anything  else  we  had  better  immediately 
open  a  subscription-list.  We  will  write  to  our 
friends  in  the  capitals  and  in  Odessa,  Natalie,  and 


The  Wife  15 

ask  them  to  subscribe.  When  we  have  got  together 
a  little  sum  we  will  begin  buying  corn  and  fodder 
for  the  cattle;  and  you,  Ivan  Ivanitch,  will  you  be 
so  kind  as  to  undertake  distributing  the  relief? 
Entirely  relying  on  your  characteristic  tact  and  ef- 
ficiency, we  will  only  venture  to  express  a  desire  that 
before  you  give  any  relief  you  make  acquaintance 
with  the  details  of  the  case  on  the  spot,  and  also, 
which  is  very  important,  you  should  be  careful  that 
corn  should  be  distributed  only  to  those  who  are 
in  genuine  need,  and  not  to  the  drunken,  the  idle, 
or  the  dishonest." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  .  .  ."  muttered  Ivan  Ivanitch. 
"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure." 

"  Well,  one  won't  get  much  done  with  that  slob- 
bering wreck,"  I  thought,  and  I  felt  irritated. 

"  I  am  sick  of  these  famine-stricken  peasants, 
bother  them!  It's  nothing  but  grievances  with 
them !  "  Ivan  Ivanitch  went  on,  sucking  the  rind  of 
the  lemon.  "  The  hungry  have  a  grievance  against 
those  who  have  enough,  and  those  who  have  enough 
have  a  grievance  against  the  hungry.  Yes  .  .  . 
hunger  stupefies  and  maddens  a  man  and  makes 
him  savage;  hunger  is  not  a  potato.  When  a  man 
is  starving  he  uses  bad  language,  and  steals,  and 
may  do  worse.  .  .  .  One  must  realize  that." 

Ivan  Ivanitch  choked  over  his  tea,  coughed,  and 
shook  all  over  with  a  squeaky,  smothered  laughter. 

"  '  There  was  a  battle  at  Pol  .  .  .  Poltava,'  "  he 
brought  out,  gesticulating  with  both  hands  in  protest 
against  the  laughter  and  coughing  which  prevented 
him    from    speaking.     " '  There    was    a    battle    at 


16  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Poltava !  '  When  three  years  after  the  Emancipa- 
tion we  had  famine  in  two  districts  here,  Fyodor 
Fyodoritch  came  and  invited  me  to  go  to  him. 
'  Come  along,  come  along,'  he  persisted,  and  noth- 
ing else  would  satisfy  him.  '  Very  well,  let  us  go,' 
I  said.  And,  so  we  set  off.  It  was  in  the  evening; 
there  was  snow  falling.  Towards  night  we  were 
getting  near  his  place,  and  suddenly  from  the  wood 
came  'bang!'  and  another  time  'bang!'  'Oh, 
damn  it  all !'  ...  I  jumped  out  of  the  sledge, 
and  I  saw  in  the  darkness  a  man  running  up  to  me, 
knee-deep  in  the  snow.  I  put  my  arm  round  his 
shoulder,  like  this,  and  knocked  the  gun  out  of  his 
hand.  Then  another  one  turned  up;  I  fetched  him 
a  knock  on  the  back  of  his  head  so  that  he  grunted 
and  flopped  with  his  nose  in  the  snow.  I  was  a 
sturdy  chap  then,  my  fist  was  heavy;  I  disposed  of 
two  of  them,  and  when  I  turned  round  Fyodor  was 
sitting  astride  of  a  third.  We  did  not  let  our  three 
fine  fellows  go;  we  tied  their  hands  behind  their 
backs  so  that  they  might  not  do  us  or  themselves 
any  harm,  and  took  the  fools  into  the  kitchen.  We 
were  angry  with  them  and  at  the  same  time  ashamed 
to  look  at  them;  they  were  peasants  we  knew,  and 
were  good  fellows;  we  were  sorry  for  them.  They 
were  quite  stupid  with  terror.  One  was  crying  and 
begging  our  pardon,  the  second  looked  like  a  wild 
beast  and  kept  swearing,  the  third  knelt  down  and 
began  to  pray.  I  said  to  Fedya :  '  Don't  bear 
them  a  grudge;  let  them  go,  the  rascals!  '  He  fed 
them,  gave  them  a  bushel  of  flour  each,  and  let 
them  go:     '  Get  along  with  you,' he  said.     So  that's 


The  Wife  17 

what  he  did.  .  .  .  The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  be 
his  and  everlasting  peace !  He  understood  and  did 
not  bear  them  a  grudge;  but  there  were  some  who 
did,  and  how  many  people  they  ruined!  Yes.  .  .  . 
Why,  over  the  affair  at  the  Klotchkovs'  tavern 
eleven  men  were  sent  to  the  disciplinary  battalion. 
Yes.  .  .  .  And  now,  look,  it's  the  same  thing. 
Anisyin,  the  investigating  magistrate,  stayed  the 
night  with  me  last  Thursday,  and  he  told  me  about 
some  landowner.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  They  took  the 
wall  of  his  barn  to  pieces  at  night  and  carried  off 
twenty  sacks  of  rye.  When  the  gentleman  heard 
that  such  a  crime  had  been  committed,  he  sent  a 
telegram  to  the  Governor  and  another  to  the  police 
captain,  another  to  the  investigating  magistrate! 
.  .  .  Of  course,  every  one  is  afraid  of  a  man  who 
is  fond  of  litigation.  The  authorities  were  in  a  flut- 
ter and  there  was  a  general  hubbub.  Two  villages 
were  searched." 

"  Excuse  me,  Ivan  Ivanitch,"  I  said.  "  Twenty 
sacks  of  rye  were  stolen  from  me,  and  it  was  I 
who  telegraphed  to  the  Governor.  I  telegraphed 
to  Petersburg,  too.  But  it  was  by  no  means  out 
of  love  for  litigation,  as  you  are  pleased  to  express 
it,  and  not  because  I  bore  them  a  grudge.  I  look 
at  every  subject  from  the  point  of  view  of  principle. 
From  the  point  of  view  of  the  law,  theft  is  the  same 
whether  a  man  is  hungry  or  not." 

"  Yes,  yes  .  .  ."  muttered  Ivan  Ivanitch  in  con- 
fusion.     "  Of  course.  .   .  To  be  sure,  yes." 

Natalya  Gavrilovna  blushed. 

"There  are  people  .  .  ."  she  said  and  stopped; 


18  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

she  made  an  effort  to  seem  indifferent,  but  she  could 
not  keep  it  up,  and  looked  into  my  eyes  with  the 
hatred  that  I  know  so  well.  "  There  are  people," 
she  said,  "  for  whom  famine  and  human  suffering 
exist  simply  that  they  may  vent  their  hateful  and 
despicable  temperaments  upon  them." 

I  was  confused  and  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"  I  meant  to  say  generally,"  she  went  on,  "  that 
there  are  people  who  are  quite  indifferent  and  com- 
pletely devoid  of  all  feeling  of  sympathy,  yet  who 
do  not  pass  human  suffering  by,  but  insist  on  med- 
dling for  fear  people  should  be  able  to  do  without 
them.     Nothing  is  sacred  for  their  vanity." 

"  There  are  people,"  I  said  softly,  "  who  have  an 
angelic  character,  but  who  express  their  glorious 
ideas  in  such  a  form  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish 
the  angel  from  an  Odessa  market-woman." 

I  must  confess  it  was  not  happily  expressed. 

My  wife  looked  at  me  as  though  it  cost  her  a 
great  effort  to  hold  her  tongue.  Her  sudden  out- 
burst, and  then  her  inappropriate  eloquence  on  the 
subject  of  my  desire  to  help  the  famine-stricken 
peasants,  were,  to  say  the  least,  out  of  place;  when 
I  had  invited  her  to  come  upstairs  I  had  expected 
quite  a  different  attitude  to  me  and  my  intentions.. 
I  cannot  say  definitely  what  I  had  expected,  but 
I  had  been  agreeably  agitated  by  the  expectation. 
Now  I  saw  that  to  go  on  speaking  about  the  famine 
would  be  difficult  and  perhaps  stupid. 

"  Yes  .  .  ."  Ivan  Ivanitch  muttered  inappropri- 
ately. "  Burov,  the  merchant,  must  have  four 
hundred  thousand  at  least.      I  said  to  him :     '  Hand 


The  Wife  19 

over  one  or  two  thousand  to  the  famine.  You  can't 
take  it  with  you  when  you  die,  anyway.'  He  was 
offended.  But  we  all  have  to  die,  you  know. 
Death  is  not  a  potato." 

A  silence  followed  again. 

"  So  there's  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  reconcile 
myself  to  loneliness,"  I  sighed.  "  One  cannot  fight 
single-handed.  Well,  I  will  try  single-handed. 
Let  us  hope  that  my  campaign  against  the  famine 
will  be  more  successful  than  my  campaign  against 
indifference." 

"  I  am  expected  downstairs,"  said  Natalya  Gav- 
rilovna. 

She  got  up  from  the  table  and  turned  to  Ivan 
Ivanitch. 

"  So  you  will  look  in  upon  me  downstairs  for  a 
minute?     I  won't  say  good-bye  to  you." 

And  she  went  away. 

Ivan  Ivanitch  was  now  drinking  his  seventh  glass 
of  tea,  choking,  smacking  his  lips,  and  sucking 
sometimes  his  moustache,  sometimes  the  lemon. 
He  was  muttering  something  drowsily  and  listlessly, 
and  I  did  not  listen  but  waited  for  him  to  go.  At 
last,  with  an  expression  that  suggested  that  he  had 
only  come  to  me  to  take  a  cup  of  tea,  he  got  up 
and  began  to  take  leave.     As  I  saw  him  out  I  said: 

"  And  so  you  have  given  me  no  advice." 

"Eh?  I  am  a  feeble,  stupid  old  man,"  he  an- 
swered. "What  use  would  my  advice  be?  You 
shouldn't  worry  yourself.  ...  I  really  don't  know 
why  you  worry  yourself.  Don't  disturb  yourself, 
my  dear  fellow!     Upon  my  word,  there's  no  need," 


20  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

he  whispered  genuinely  and  affectionately,  soothing 
me  as  though  I  were  a  child.  "  Upon  my  word, 
there's  no  need." 

"No  need?  Why,  the  peasants  are  pulling  the 
thatch  off  their  huts,  and  they  say  there  is  typhus 
somewhere  already." 

"  Well,  what  of  it?  If  there  are  good  crops  next 
year,  they'll  thatch  them  again,  and  if  we  die  of 
typhus  others  will  live  after  us.  Anyway,  we  have 
to  die  —  if  not  now,  later.  Don't  worry  yourself, 
my  dear." 

"  I  can't  help  worrying  myself,"  I  said  irritably. 

We  were  standing  in  the  dimly  lighted  vestibule. 
Ivan  Ivanitch  suddenly  took  me  by  the  elbow,  and, 
preparing  to  say  something  evidently  very  import- 
ant, looked  at  me  in  silence  for  a  couple  of  minutes. 

"  Pavel  Andreitch!  "  he  said  softly,  and  suddenly 
in  his  puffy,  set  face  and  dark  eyes  there  was  a 
gleam  of  the  expression  for  which  he  had  once  been 
famous  and  which  was  truly  charming.  "  Pavel 
Andreitch,  I  speak  to  you  as  a  friend:  try  to  be 
different!  One  is  ill  at  ease  with  you,  my  dear  fel- 
low, one  really  is !  " 

He  looked  intently  into  my  face;  the  charming 
expression  faded  away,  his  eyes  grew  dim  again,  and 
he  sniffed  and  muttered  feebly: 

"  Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  Excuse  an  old  man.  .  .  .  It's 
all  nonsense  .   .   .  yes." 

As  he  slowly  descended  the  staircase,  spreading 
out  his  hands  to  balance  himself  and  showing  me 
his  huge,  bulky  back  and  red  neck,  he  gave  me  the 
unpleasant  impression  of  a  sort  of  crab. 


The  Wife  21 

"  You  ought  to  go  away,  your  Excellency,"  he 
muttered.  "  To  Petersburg  or  abroad.  .  .  .  Why 
should  you  live  here  and  waste  your  golden  days? 
You  are  young,  wealthy,  and  healthy.  .  .  .  Yes. 
.  .  .  Ah,  if  I  were  younger  I  would  whisk  away 
like  a  hare,  and  snap  my  fingers  at  everything." 

Ill 

My  wife's  outburst  reminded  me  of  our  married 
life  together.  In  old  days  after  every  such  out- 
burst we  felt  irresistibly  drawn  to  each  other;  we 
would  meet  and  let  off  all  the  dynamite  that  had 
accumulated  in  our  souls.  And  now  after  Ivan 
Ivanitch  had  gone  away  I  had  a  strong  impulse  to 
go  to  my  wife.  I  wanted  to  go  downstairs  and  tell 
her  that  her  behaviour  at  tea  had  been  an  insult  to 
me,  that  she  was  cruel,  petty,  and  that  her  plebeian 
mind  had  never  risen  to  a  comprehension  of  what  / 
was  saying  and  of  what  /  was  doing.  I  walked 
about  the  rooms  a  long  time  thinking  of  what  I 
would  say  to  her  and  trying  to  guess  what  she  would 
say  to  me. 

That  evening,  after  Ivan  Ivanitch  went  away, 
I  felt  in  a  peculiarly  irritating  form  the  uneasiness 
which  had  worried  me  of  late.  I  could  not  sit 
down  or  sit  still,  but  kept  walking  about  in  the 
rooms  that  were  lighted  up  and  keeping  near  to  the 
one  in  which  Marya  Gerasimovna  was  sitting.  I 
had  a  feeling  very  much  like  that  which  I  had  on 
the  North  Sea  during  a  storm  when  every  one 
thought  that  our  ship,  which  had  no   freight  nor 


22  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

ballast,  would  overturn.  And  that  evening  I  un- 
derstood that  my  uneasiness  was  not  disappoint- 
ment, as  I  had  supposed,  but  a  different  feeling, 
though  what  exactly  I  could  not  say,  and  that  irri- 
tated me  more  than  ever. 

11  I  will  go  to  her,"  I  decided.  "  I  can  think  of  a 
pretext.  I  shall  say  that  I  want  to  see  Ivan  Ivan- 
itch;  that  will  be  all." 

I  went  downstairs  and  walked  without  haste  over 
the  carpeted  floor  through  the  vestibule  and  the  hall. 
Ivan  Ivanitch  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  the  draw- 
ing-room; he  was  drinking  tea  again  and  mutter- 
ing something.  My  wife  was  standing  opposite  to 
him  and  holding  on  to  the  back  of  a  chair.  There 
was  a  gentle,  sweet,  and  docile  expression  on  her 
face,  such  as  one  sees  on  the  faces  of  people  listen- 
ing to  crazy  saints  or  holy  men  when  a  peculiar 
hidden  significance  is  imagined  in  their  vague  words 
and  mutterings.  There  was  something  morbid, 
something  of  a  nun's  exaltation,  in  my  wife's  expres- 
sion and  attitude;  and  her  low-pitched,  half-dark 
rooms  with  their  old-fashioned  furniture,  with  her 
birds  asleep  in  their  cages,  and  with  a  smell  of  gera- 
nium, reminded  me  of  the  rooms  of  some  abbess  or 
pious  old  lady. 

I  went  into  the  drawing-room.  My  wife  showed 
neither  surprise  nor  confusion,  and  looked  at  me 
calmly  and  serenely,  as  though  she  had  known  I 
should  come. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said  softly.  "  I  am  so 
glad  you  have  not  gone  yet,  Ivan  Ivanitch.     I  for- 


The  Wife  23 

got  to  ask  you,  do  you  know  the  Christian  name  of 
the  president  of  our  Zemstvo?  " 

"  Andrey  Stanislavovitch.     Yes.  .  .  ." 

"  Merely''  I  said,  took  out  my  notebook,  and 
wrote  it  down. 

There  followed  a  silence  during  which  my  wife 
and  Ivan  Ivanitch  were  probably  waiting  for  me 
to  go;  my  wife  did  not  believe  that  I  wanted  to 
know  the  president's  name  —  I  saw  that  from  her 
eyes. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going,  my  beauty,"  muttered 
Ivan  Ivanitch,  after  I  had  walked  once  or  twice 
across  the  drawing-room  and  sat  down  by  the  fire- 
place. 

11  No,"  said  Natalya  Gavrilovna  quickly,  touch- 
ing his  hand.  "  Stay  another  quarter  of  an  hour. 
.  .  .  Please  do !  " 

Evidently  she  did  not  wish  to  be  left  alone  with 
me  without  a  witness. 

"  Oh,  well,  I'll  wait  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  too," 
I  thought. 

"  Why,  it's  snowing!  "  I  said,  getting  up  and 
looking  out  of  window.  "A  good  fall  of  snow! 
Ivan  Ivanitch  " —  I  went  on  walking  about  the  room 
— "  I  do  regret  not  being  a  sportsman.  I  can 
imagine  what  a  pleasure  it  must  be  coursing  hares 
or  hunting  wolves  in  snow  like  this!  " 

My  wife,  standing  still,  watched  my  movements, 
looking  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes  without  turn- 
ing her  head.  She  looked  as  though  she  thought 
I  had  a  sharp  knife  or  a  revolver  in  my  pocket. 


24  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Ivan  Ivanitch,  do  take  me  out  hunting  some 
day,"  I  went  on  softly.  "  I  shall  be  very,  very 
grateful  to  you/' 

At  that  moment  a  visitor  came  into  the  room. 
He  was  a  tall,  thick-set  gentleman  whom  I  did  not 
know,  with  a  bald  head,  a  big  fair  beard,  and  little 
eyes.  From  his  baggy,  crumpled  clothes  and  his 
manners  I  took  him  to  be  a  parish  clerk  or  a  teacher, 
but  my  wife  introduced  him  to  me  as  Dr.  Sobol. 

"  Very,  very  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance," 
said  the  doctor  in  a  loud  tenor  voice,  shaking  hands 
with  me  warmly,  with  a  naive  smile.  "  Very 
glad!" 

He  sat  down  at  the  table,  took  a  glass  of  tea, 
and  said  in  a  loud  voice : 

"  Do  you  happen  to  have  a  drop  of  rum  or 
brandy?  Have  pity  on  me,  Olya,  and  look  in  the 
cupboard;  I  am  frozen,"  he  said,  addressing  the 
maid. 

I  sat  down  by  the  fire  again,  looked  on,  listened, 
and  from  time  to  time  put  in  a  word  in  the  general 
conversation.  My  wife  smiled  graciously  to  the 
visitors  and  kept  a  sharp  lookout  on  me,  as  though 
I  were  a  wild  beast.  She  was  oppressed  by  my 
presence,  and  this  aroused  in  me  jealousy,  annoy- 
ance, and  an  obstinate  desire  to  wound  her. 
"Wife,  these  snug  rooms,  the  place  by  the  fire,"  I 
thought,  "  are  mine,  have  been  mine  for  years,  but 
some  crazy  Ivan  Ivanitch  or  Sobol  has  for  some 
reason  more  right  to  them  than  I.  Now  I  see  my 
wife,  not  out  of  window,  but  close  at  hand,  in  or- 
dinary home  surroundings  that  I  feel  the  want  of 


The  Wife  25 

now  I  am  growing  older,  and,  in  spite  of  her  hatred 
for  me,  I  miss  her  as  years  ago  in  my  childhood  I 
used  to  miss  my  mother  and  my  nurse.  And  I  feel 
that  now,  on  the  verge  of  old  age,  my  love  for  her 
is  purer  and  loftier  than  it  was  in  the  past;  and  that 
is  why  I  want  to  go  up  to  her,  to  stamp  hard  on 
her  toe  with  my  heel,  to  hurt  her  and  smile  as  I 
do  it." 

"  Monsieur  Marten,"  I  said,  addressing  the 
doctor,  "  how  many  hospitals  have  we  in  the  dis- 
trict?" 

"  Sobol,"  my  wife  corrected. 

"  Two,"  answered  Sobol. 

"  And  how  many  deaths  are  there  every  year  in 
each  hospital?  " 

"  Pavel  Andreitch,  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  said 
my  wife. 

She  apologized  to  the  visitors  and  went  to  the 
next  room.     I  got  up  and  followed  her. 

"  You  will  go  upstairs  to  your  own  rooms  this 
minute,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  ill-bred,"  I  said  to  her. 

"  You  will  go  upstairs  to  your  own  rooms  this 
very  minute,"  she  repeated  sharply,  and  she  looked 
into  my  face  with  hatred. 

She  was  standing  so  near  that  if  I  had  stooped 
a  little  my  beard  would  have  touched  her  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  I  asked.  "  What  harm 
have  I  done  all  at  once?  " 

Her  chin  quivered,  she  hastily  wiped  her  eyes, 
and,  with  a  cursory  glance  at  the  looking-glass, 
whispered: 


26  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  The  old  story  is  beginning  all  over  again.  Of 
course  you  won't  go  away.  Well,  do  as  you  like. 
I'll  go  away  myself,  and  you  stay." 

We  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  she  with  a 
resolute  face,  while  I  shrugged  my  shoulders  and 
tried  to  smile.  There  were  some  more  visitors  — 
an  elderly  lady  and  a  young  man  in  spectacles. 
Without  greeting  the  new  arrivals  or  taking  leave 
of  the  others,  I  went  off  to  my  own  rooms. 

After  what  had  happened  at  tea  and  then  again 
downstairs,  it  became  clear  to  me  that  our  "  family 
happiness,"  which  we  had  begun  to  forget  about  in 
the  course  of  the  last  two  years,  was  through  some 
absurd  and  trivial  reason  beginning  all  over  again, 
and  that  neither  I  nor  my  wife  could  now  stop  our- 
selves; and  that  next  day  or  the  day  after,  the  out- 
burst of  hatred  would,  as  I  knew  by  experience  of 
past  years,  be  followed  by  something  revolting 
which  would  upset  the  whole  order  of  our  lives. 
"  So  it  seems  that  during  these  two  years  we  have 
grown  no  wiser,  colder,  or  calmer,"  I  thought  as  I 
began  walking  about  the  rooms.  "  So  there  will 
again  be  tears,  outcries,  curses,  packing  up,  going 
abroad,  then  the  continual  sickly  fear  that  she 
will  disgrace  me  with  some  coxcomb  out  there,  Ital- 
ian or  Russian,  refusing  a  passport,  letters,  utter 
loneliness,  missing  her,  and  in  five  years  old  age, 
grey  hairs."  I  walked  about,  imagining  what  was 
really  impossible  —  her,  grown  handsomer,  stouter, 
embracing  a  man  I  did  not  know.  By  now  con- 
vinced that  that  would  certainly  happen,  "  Why,"  I 
asked  myself,  "  Why,  in  one  of  our  long  past  quar- 


The  Wife  27 

rels,  had  not  I  given  her  a  divorce,  or  why  had  she 
not  at  that  time  left  me  altogether?  I  should  not 
have  had  this  yearning  for  her  now,  this  hatred, 
this  anxiety;  and  I  should  have  lived  out  my  life 
quietly,  working  and  not  worrying  about  anything." 

A  carriage  with  two  lamps  drove  into  the  yard, 
then  a  big  sledge  with  three  horses.  My  wife  was 
evidently  having  a  party. 

Till  midnight  everything  was  quiet  downstairs 
and  I  heard  nothing,  but  at  midnight  there  was  a 
sound  of  moving  chairs  and  a  clatter  of  crockery. 
So  there  was  supper.  Then  the  chairs  moved  again, 
and  through  the  floor  I  heard  a  noise;  they  seemed 
to  be  shouting  hurrah.  Marya  Gerasimovna  was 
already  asleep  and  I  was  quite  alone  in  the  whole 
upper  storey;  the  portraits  of  my  forefathers,  cruel, 
insignificant  people,  looked  at  me  from  the  walls 
of  the  drawing-room,  and  the  reflection  of  my  lamp 
in  the  window  winked  unpleasantly.  And  with  a 
feeling  of  jealousy  and  envy  for  what  was  going  on 
downstairs,  I  listened  and  thought:  "  I  am  master 
here;  if  I  like,  I  can  in  a  moment  turn  out  all  that 
fine  crew."  But  I  knew  that  all  that  was  non- 
sense, that  I  could  not  turn  out  any  one,  and  the  word 
"  master  "  had  no  meaning.  One  may  think  one- 
self master,  married,  rich,  a  kammer-junker,  as 
much  as  one  likes,  and  at  the  same  time  not  know 
what  it  means. 

After  supper  some  one  downstairs  began  singing 
in  a  tenor  voice. 

"  Why,  nothing  special  has  happened,"  I  tried  to 
persuade  myself.     "Why  am  I  so  upset?     I  won't 


28  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

go  downstairs  tomorrow,  that's  all;  and  that  will 
be  the  end  of  our  quarrel." 

At  a  quarter  past  one  I  went  to  bed. 

"Have  the  visitors  downstairs  gone?"  I  asked 
Alexey  as  he  was  undressing  me. 

"  Yes,  sir,  they've  gone." 

"  And  why  were  they  shouting  hurrah?  " 

"  Alexey  Dmitritch  Mahonov  subscribed  for  the 
famine  fund  a  thousand  bushels  of  flour  and  a 
thousand  roubles.  And  the  old  lady  —  I  don't 
know  her  name  —  promised  to  set  up  a  soup  kitchen 
on  her  estate  to  feed  a  hundred  and  fifty  people. 
Thank  God  .  .  .  Natalya  Gavrilovna  has  been 
pleased  to  arrange  that  all  the  gentry  should  as- 
semble every  Friday." 

"To  assemble  here,  downstairs?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Before  supper  they  read  a  list:  since 
August  up  to  today  Natalya  Gavrilovna  has  col- 
lected eight  thousand  roubles,  besides  corn.  Thank 
God.  .  .  .  What  I  think  is  that  if  our  mistress 
does  take  trouble  for  the  salvation  of  her  soul,  she 
will  soon  collect  a  lot.  There  are  plenty  of  rich 
people  here." 

Dismissing  Alexey,  I  put  out  the  light  and  drew 
the  bedclothes  over  my  head. 

"After  all,  why  am  I  so  troubled?"  I  thought. 
"  What  force  draws  me  to  the  starving  peasants 
like  a  butterfly  to  a  flame?  I  don't  know  them,  I 
don't  understand  them;  I  have  never  seen  them  and 
I  don't  like  them.     Why  this  uneasiness?  " 

I  suddenly  crossed  myself  under  the  quilt. 

"  But  what  a  woman  she  is!  "  I  said  to  myself, 


The  Wife  29 

thinking  of  my  wife.  "  There's  a  regular  commit- 
tee held  in  the  house  without  my  knowing.  Why 
this  secrecy?  Why  this  conspiracy?  What  have 
I  done  to  them?  Ivan  Ivanitch  is  right  —  I  must 
go  away." 

Next  morning  I  woke  up  firmly  resolved  to  go 
away.  The  events  of  the  previous  day  —  the  con- 
versation at  tea,  my  wife,  Sobol,  the  supper,  my  ap- 
prehensions —  worried  me,  and  I  felt  glad  to  think 
of  getting  away  from  the  surroundings  which  re- 
minded me  of  all  that.  While  I  was  drinking  my 
coffee  the  bailiff  gave  me  a  long  report  on  various 
matters.  The  most  agreeable  item  he  saved  for 
the  last. 

"  The  thieves  who  stole  our  rye  have  been  found," 
he  announced  with  a  smile.  "  The  magistrate  ar- 
rested three  peasants  at  Pestrovo  yesterday." 

"  Go  away!  "  I  shouted  at  him;  and  a  propos  of 
nothing,  I  picked  up  the  cake-basket  and  flung  it  on 
the  floor. 


IV 

After  lunch  I  rubbed  my  hands,  and  thought  I 
must  go  to  my  wife  and  tell  her  that  I  was  going 
away.  Why?  Who  cared?  Nobody  cares,  I 
answered,  but  why  shouldn't  I  tell  her,  especially  as 
it  would  give  her  nothing  but  pleasure?  Besides, 
to  go  away  after  our  yesterday's  quarrel  without 
saying  a  word  would  not  be  quite  tactful :  she  might 
think  that  I  was  frightened  of  her,  and  perhaps  the 
thought  that  she  has  driven  me  out  of  my  house 


30  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

may  weigh  upon  her.  It  would  be  just  as  well,  too, 
to  tell  her  that  I  subscribe  five  thousand,  and  to 
give  her  some  advice  about  the  organization,  and 
to  warn  her  that  her  inexperience  in  such  a  com- 
plicated and  responsible  matter  might  lead  to  most 
lamentable  results.  In  short,  I  wanted  to  see  my 
wife,  and  while  I  thought  of  various  pretexts  for 
going  to  her,  I  had  a  firm  conviction  in  my  heart  that 
I  should  do  so. 

It  was  still  light  when  I  went  in  to  her,  and  the 
lamps  had  not  yet  been  lighted.  She  was  sitting 
in  her  study,  which  led  from  the  drawing-room  to 
her  bedroom,  and,  bending  low  over  the  table,  was 
writing  something  quickly.  Seeing  me,  she  started, 
got  up  from  the  table,  and  remained  standing  in  an 
attitude  such  as  to  screen  her  papers  from  me. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  have  only  come  for  a  min- 
ute," I  said,  and,  I  don't  know  why,  I  was  over- 
come with  embarrassment.  "  I  have  learnt  by 
chance  that  you  are  organizing  relief  for  the  fam- 
ine, Natalie." 

"  Yes,  I  am.  But  that's  my  business,"  she  an- 
swered. 

'  Yes,  it  is  your  business,"  I  said  softly.  "  I 
am  glad  of  it,  for  it  just  fits  in  with  my  intentions. 
I  beg  your  permission  to  take  part  in  it." 

"  Forgive  me,  I  cannot  let  you  do  it,"  she  said 
in  response,  and  looked  away. 

"Why  not,  Natalie?"  I  said  quietly.  "Why 
not?  I,  too,  am  well  fed  and  I,  too,  want  to  help 
the  hungry." 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  has  to  do  with  you,"  she 


The  Wife  31 

said  with  a  contemptuous  smile,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.      "  Nobody  asks  you." 

"  Nobody  asks  you,  either,  and  yet  you  have  got 
up  a  regular  committee  in  my  house,"  I  said. 

"  I  am  asked,  but  you  can  have  my  word  for  it 
no  one  will  ever  ask  you.  Go  and  help  where  you 
are  not  known." 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  talk  to  me  in  that  tone." 
I  tried  to  be  mild,  and  besought  myself  most  ear- 
nestly not  to  lose  my  temper.  For  the  first  few 
minutes  I  felt  glad  to  be  with  my  wife.  I  felt  an 
atmosphere  of  youth,  of  home,  of  feminine  soft- 
ness, of  the  most  refined  elegance  —  exactly  what 
was  lacking  on  my  floor  and  in  my  life  altogether. 
My  wife  was  wearing  a  pink  flannel  dressing-gown; 
it  made  her  look  much  younger,  and  gave  a  softness 
to  her  rapid  and  sometimes  abrupt  movements. 
Her  beautiful  dark  hair,  the  mere  sight  of  which 
at  one  time  stirred  me  to  passion,  had  from  sitting 
so  long  with  her  head  bent  come  loose  from  the 
comb  and  was  untidy,  but,  to  my  eyes,  that  only 
made  it  look  more  rich  and  luxuriant.  All  this, 
though  is  banal  to  the  point  of  vulgarity.  Before 
me  stood  an  ordinary  woman,  perhaps  neither  beau- 
tiful nor  elegant,  but  this  was  my  wife  with  whom 
I  had  once  lived,  and  with  whom  I  should  have  been 
living  to  this  day  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  un- 
fortunate character;  she  was  the  one  human  being  on 
the  terrestrial  globe  whom  I  loved.  At  this  mo- 
ment, just  before  going  away,  when  I  knew  that 
I  should  no  longer  see  her  even  through  the  window, 
she  seemed  to  me  fascinating  even  as  she  was,  cold 


32  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

and  forbidding,  answering  me  with  a  proud  and  con- 
temptuous mockery.  I  was  proud  of  her,  and  con- 
fessed to  myself  that  to  go  away  from  her  was  ter- 
ible  and  impossible. 

"  Pavel  Andreitch,"  she  said  after  a  brief  silence, 
"  for  two  years  we  have  not  interfered  with  each 
other  but  have  lived  quietly.  Why  do  you  suddenly 
feel  it  necessary  to  go  back  to  the  past?  Yester- 
day you  came  to  insult  and  humiliate  me,"  she  went 
on,  raising  her  voice,  and  her  face  flushed  and  her 
eyes  flamed  with  hatred;  "but  restrain  yourself; 
do  not  do  it,  Pavel  Andreitch !  Tomorrow  I  will 
send  in  a  petition  and  they  will  give  me  a  passport, 
and  I  will  go  away;  I  will  go,  I  will  go!  I'll  go 
into  a  convent,  into  a  widows'  home,  into  an  alms- 
house. .  .   ." 

"  Into  a  lunatic  asylum !  "  I  cried,  not  able  to  re- 
strain myself. 

"  Well,  even  into  a  lunatic  asylum !  That  would 
be  better,  that  would  be  better,"  she  cried,  with 
flashing  eyes.  "  When  I  was  in  Pestrovo  today  I 
envied  the  sick  and  starving  peasant  women  because 
they  are  not  living  with  a  man  like  you.  They  are 
free  and  honest,  while,  thanks  to  you,  I  am  a  para- 
site, I  am  perishing  in  idleness,  I  eat  your  bread,  I 
spend  your  money,  and  I  repay  you  with  my  liberty 
and  a  fidelity  which  is  of  no  use  to  any  one.  Be- 
cause you  won't  give  me  a  passport,  I  must  respect 
your  good  name,  though  it  doesn't  exist." 

I  had  to  keep  silent.  Clenching  my  teeth,  I 
walked  quickly  into  the  drawing-room,  but  turned 
back  at  once  and  said: 


The  Wife  33 

"  I  beg  you  earnestly  that  there  should  be  no  more 
assemblies,  plots,  and  meetings  of  conspirators  in 
my  house !  I  only  admit  to  my  house  those  with 
whom  I  am  acquainted,  and  let  all  your  crew  find 
another  place  to  do  it  if  they  want  to  take  up  philan- 
thropy. I  can't  allow  people  at  midnight  in  my 
house  to  be  shouting  hurrah  at  successfully  exploit- 
ing an  hysterical  woman  like  you  !  " 

My  wife,  pale  and  wringing  her  hands,  took  a 
rapid  stride  across  the  room,  uttering  a  prolonged 
moan  as  though  she  had  toothache.  With  a  wave 
of  my  hand,  I  went  into  the  drawing-room.  I  was 
choking  with  rage,  and  at  the  same  time  I  was  trem- 
bling with  terror  that  I  might  not  restrain  myself, 
and  that  I  might  say  or  do  something  which  I  might 
regret  all  my  life.  And  I  clenched  my  hands  tight, 
hoping  to  hold  myself  in. 

After  drinking  some  water  and  recovering  my 
calm  a  little,  I  went  back  to  my  wife.  She  was 
standing  in  the  same  attitude  as  before,  as  though 
barring  my  approach  to  the  table  with  the  papers. 
Tears  were  slowly  trickling  down  her  pale,  cold  face. 
I  paused  then  and  said  to  her  bitterly  but  without 
anger: 

"  How  you  misunderstand  me!  How  unjust  you 
are  to  me !  I  swear  upon  my  honour  I  came  to  you 
with  the  best  of  motives,  with  nothing  but  the  desire 
to  do  good  !  " 

"  Pavel  Andreitch!  "  she  said,  clasping  her  hands 
on  her  bosom,  and  her  face  took  on  the  agonized, 
imploring  expression  with  which  frightened,  weep- 
ing children  beg  not  to  be  punished,  "  I  know  per- 


34  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

fectly  well  that  you  will  refuse  me,  but  still  I  beg 
you.  Force  yourself  to  do  one  kind  action  in  your 
life.  I  entreat  you,  go  away  from  here!  That's 
the  only  thing  you  can  do  for  the  starving  peasants. 
Go  away,  and  I  will  forgive  you  everything,  every- 
thing! " 

"  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  insult  me,  Natalie," 
I  sighed,  feeling  a  sudden  rush  of  humility.  "  I  had 
already  made  up  my  mind  to  go  away,  but  I  won't 
go  until  I  have  done  something  for  the  peasants. 
It's  my  duty!  " 

11  Ach!  "  she  said  softly  with  an  impatient  frown. 
"  You  can  make  an  excellent  bridge  or  railway,  but 
you  can  do  nothing  for  the  starving  peasants.  Do 
understand!  " 

"  Indeed?  Yesterday  you  reproached  me  with 
indifference  and  with  being  devoid  of  the  feeling 
of  compassion.  How  well  you  know  me!"  I 
laughed.  "  You  believe  in  God  —  well,  God  is  my 
witness  that  I  am  worried  day  and  night.   .   .  ." 

"  I  see  that  you  are  worried,  but  the  famine  and 
compassion  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  are 
worried  because  the  starving  peasants  can  get  on 
without  you,  and  because  the  Zemstvo,  and  in  fact 
every  one  who  is  helping  them,  does  not  need  your 
guidance." 

I  was  silent,  trying  to  suppress  my  irritation. 
Then  I  said: 

"  I  came  to  speak  to  you  on  business.  Sit  down. 
Please  sit  down." 

She  did  not  sit  down. 


The  Wife  35 

"  I  beg  you  to  sit  down,"  I  repeated,  and  I  mo- 
tioned her  to  a  chair. 

She  sat  down.  I  sat  down,  too,  thought  a  little, 
and  said: 

"  I  beg  you  to  consider  earnestly  what  I  am  say- 
ing. Listen.  .  .  .  Moved  by  love  for  your  fellow- 
creatures,  you  have  undertaken  the  organization  of 
famine  relief.  I  have  nothing  against  that,  of 
course;  I  am  completely  in  sympathy  with  you,  and 
am  prepared  to  co-operate  with  you  in  every  way, 
whatever  our  relations  may  be.  But,  with  all  my 
respect  for  your  mind  and  your  heart  .  .  .  and 
your  heart,"  I  repeated,  "  I  cannot  allow  such  a  dif- 
ficult, complex,  and  responsible  matter  as  the  organ- 
ization of  relief  to  be  left  in  your  hands  entirely. 
You  are  a  woman,  you  are  inexperienced,  you  know 
nothing  of  life,  you  are  too  confiding  and  expansive. 
You  have  surrounded  yourself  with  assistants  whom 
you  know  nothing  about.  I  am  not  exaggerating  if 
I  say  that  under  these  conditions  your  work  will  in- 
evitably lead  to  two  deplorable  consequences.  To 
begin  with,  our  district  will  be  left  unrelieved;  and, 
secondly,  you  will  have  to  pay  for  your  mistakes  and 
those  of  your  assistants,  not  only  with  your  purse, 
but  with  your  reputation.  The  money  deficit  and 
other  losses  I  could,  no  doubt,  make  good,  but  who 
could  restore  you  your  good  name?  When  through 
lack  of  proper  supervision  and  oversight  there  is  a 
rumour  that  you,  and  consequently  I,  have  made  two 
hundred  thousand  over  the  famine  fund,  will  your 
assistants  come  to  your  aid?  " 


36  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

She  said  nothing. 

11  Not  from  vanity,  as  you  say,"  I  went  on,  "  but 
simply  that  the  starving  peasants  may  not  be  left 
unrelieved  and  your  reputation  may  not  be  injured, 
I  feel  it  my  moral  duty  to  take  part  in  your  work." 

"  Speak  more  briefly,"  said  my  wife. 

"  You  will  be  so  kind,"  I  went  on,  "  as  to  show  me 
what  has  been  subscribed  so  far  and  what  you  have 
spent.  Then  inform  me  daily  of  every  fresh  sub- 
scription in  money  or  kind,  and  of  every  fresh  out- 
lay. You  will  also  give  me,  Natalie,  the  list  of  your 
helpers.  Perhaps  they  are  quite  decent  people;  I 
don't  doubt  it;  but,  still,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to 
make  inquiries." 

She  was  silent.  I  got  up,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room. 

"  Let  us  set  to  work,  then,"  I  said,  and  I  sat  down 
to  her  table. 

"  Are  you  in  earnest?  "  she  asked,  looking  at  me 
in  alarm  and  bewilderment. 

"  Natalie,  do  be  reasonable!  "  I  said  appealingly, 
seeing  from  her  face  that  she  meant  to  protest. 
"  I  beg  you,  trust  my  experience  and  my  sense  of 
honour." 

"  I  don't  understand  what  you  want." 

M  Show  me  how  much  you  have  collected  and  how 
much  you  have  spent." 

"  I  have  no  secrets.     Any  one  may  see.     Look." 

On  the  table  lay  five  or  six  school  exercise  books, 
several  sheets  of  notepaper  covered  with  writing,  a 
map  of  the  district,  and  a  number  of  pieces  of  paper 


The  Wife  37 

of  different  sizes.  It  was  getting  dusk.  I  lighted 
a  candle. 

"  Excuse  me,  I  don't  see  anything  yet,"  I  said, 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  exercise  books. 
"  Where  is  the  account  of  the  receipt  of  money  sub- 
scriptions? " 

"  That  can  be  seen  from  the  subscription  lists." 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  have  an  account,"  I  said, 
smiling  at  her  naivete.  "  Where  are  the  letters  ac- 
companying the  subscriptions  in  money  or  in  kind? 
Pardon,  a  little  practical  advice,  Natalie:  it's  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  keep  those  letters.  You  ought  to 
number  each  letter  and  make  a  special  note  of  it  in  a 
special  record.  You  ought  to  do  the  same  with  your 
own  letters.     But  I  will  do  all  that  myself." 

"  Do  so,  do  so  .  .  ."  she  said. 

I  was  very  much  pleased  with  myself.  Attracted 
by  this  living  interesting  work,  by  the  little  table,  the 
naive  exercise  books  and  the  charm  of  doing  this 
work  in  my  wife's  society,  I  was  afraid  that  my  wife 
would  suddenly  hinder  me  and  upset  everything  by 
some  sudden  whim,  and  so  I  was  in  haste  and  made 
an  effort  to  attach  no  consequence  to  the  fact  that  her 
lips  were  quivering,  and  that  she  was  looking  about 
her  with  a  helpless  and  frightened  air  like  a  wild 
creature  in  a  trap. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Natalie,"  T  said  without  looking 
at  her;  "let  me  take  all  these  papers  and  exercise 
books  upstairs  to  my  study.  There  I  will  look 
through  them  and  tell  you  what  I  think  about  it  to- 
morrow.    Have  you  any  more  papers?"  I  asked, 


38 


The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


arranging  the  exercise  books  and  sheets  of  papers  in 
piles. 

"  Take  them,  take  them  all!  "  said  my  wife,  help- 
ing me  to  arrange  them,  and  big  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks.  "  Take  it  all!  That's  all  that  was  left  me 
in  life.   .   .   .  Take  the  last." 

"  Ach!  Natalie,  Natalie !  "  I  sighed  reproachfully. 

She  opened  the  drawer  in  the  table  and  began 
flinging  the  papers  out  of  it  on  the  table  at  random, 
poking  me  in  the  chest  with  her  elbow  and  brush- 
ing my  face  with  her  hair;  as  she  did  so,  copj.  4  coins 
kept  dropping  upon  my  knees  and  on  the  floor^ 

"  Take  everything!  "  she  said  in  a  husky  volet 

When  she  had  thrown  out  the  papers  she  walked 
away  from  me,  and  putting  both  hands  to  her  head, 
she  flung  herself  on  the  couch.  I  picked  up  the 
money,  put  it  back  in  the  drawer,  and  locked  it  up 
that  the  servants  might  not  be  led  into  dishonesty; 
then  I  gathered  up  all  the  papers  and  went  off  with 
them.  As  I  passed  my  wife  I  stopped,  and,  looking 
at  her  back  and  shaking  shoulders,  I  said  : 

"What  a  baby  you  are,  Natalie!  Fie,  fie! 
Listen,  Natalie:  when  you  realize  how  serious  and 
responsible  a  business  it  is  you  will  be  the  first  to 
thank  me.      I  assure  you  you  will." 

In  my  own  room  I  set  to  work  without  haste. 
The  exercise  books  were  not  bound,  the  pages  were 
not  numbered.  The  entries  were  put  in  all  sorts  of 
handwritings;  evidently  any  one  who  liked  had  a 
hand  in  managing  the  books.  In  the  record  of  the 
subscriptions  in  kind  there  was  no  note  of  their 
money  value.      But,  excuse  me,  I  thought,  the  rye 


The  Wife  39 

which  is  now  worth  one  rouble  fifteen  kopecks  may  be 
worth  two  roubles  fifteen  kopecks  in  two  months' 
time!  Was  that  the  way  to  do  things?  Then, 
"  Given  to  A.  M.  Sobol  32  roubles."  When  was  it 
given?  For  what  purpose  was  it  given?  Where 
was  the  receipt?  There  was  nothing  to  show,  and 
no  making  anything  of  it.  In  case  of  legal  proceed- 
ings, these  papers  would  only  obscure  the  case. 

"  How  naive  she  is !  "  I  thought  with  surprise. 
"What  a  child!" 

I  felt  both  vexed  and  amused. 


V 

My  wife  had  already  collected  eight  thousand; 
with  my  five  it  would  be  thirteen  thousand.  For  a 
start  that  was  very  good.  The  business  which  had  so 
worried  and  interested  me  was  at  last  in  my  hands; 
I  was  doing  what  the  others  would  not  and  could  not 
do;  I  was  doing  my  duty,  organizing  the  relief  fund 
in  a  practical  and  businesslike  way. 

Everything  seemed  to  be  going  in  accordance  with 
my  desires  and  intentions;  but  why  did  my  feeling 
of  uneasiness  persist?  I  spent  four  hours  over  my 
wife's  papers,  making  out  their  meaning  and  correct- 
ing her  mistakes,  but  instead  of  feeling  soothed,  I 
felt  as  though  some  one  were  standing  behind  me 
and  rubbing  my  back  with  a  rough  hand.  What  was 
it  I  wanted?  The  organization  of  the  relief  fund 
had  come  into  trustworthy  hands,  the  hungry  would 
be  fed  —  what  more  was  wanted? 

The  four  hours  of  this  light  work  for  some  reason 


40  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

exhausted  me,  so  that  I  could  not  sit  bending  over 
the  table  nor  write.  From  below  I  heard  from  time 
to  time  a  smothered  moan;  it  was  my  wife  sobbing. 
Alexey,  invariably  meek,  sleepy,  and  sanctimonious, 
kept  coming  up  to  the  table  to  see  to  the  candles,  and 
looked  at  me  somewhat  strangely. 

"  Yes,  I  must  go  away,"  I  decided  at  last,  feeling 
utterly  exhausted.  "  As  far  as  possible  from  these 
agreeable  impressions !     I  will  set  off  tomorrow." 

1  gathered  together  the  papers  and  exercise  books, 
and  went  down  to  my  wife.  As,  feeling  quite  worn 
out  and  shattered,  I  held  the  papers  and  the  exercise 
books  to  my  breast  with  both  hands,  and  passing 
through  my  bedroom  saw  my  trunks,  the  sound  of 
weeping  reached  me  through  the  floor. 

"  Are  you  a  kammer-junker?  "  a  voice  whispered 
in  my  ear.  "  That's  a  very  pleasant  thing.  But  yet 
you  are  a  reptile." 

"  It's  all  nonsense,  nonsense,  nonsense,"  I  mut- 
tered as  I  went  downstairs.  "  Nonsense  .  .  .  and 
it's  nonsense,  too,  that  T  am  actuated  by  vanity  or  a 
love  of  display.  .  .  .  What  rubbish !  Am  I  going 
to  get  a  decoration  for  working  for  the  peasants  or 
be  made  the  director  of  a  department?  Nonsense, 
nonsense!  And  who  is  there  to  show  off  to  here  in 
the  country?  " 

I  was  tired,  frightfully  tired,  and  something  kept 
whispering  in  my  ear:  "  Very  pleasant.  But,  still, 
you  are  a  reptile."  For  some  reason  I  remembered 
a  line  out  of  an  old  poem  I  knew  as  a  child :  "  How 
pleasant  it  is  to  be  good!  " 

My  wife  was  lying  on  the  couch  in  the  same  atti- 


The  Wife  41 

tude,  on  her  face  and  with  her  hands  clutching  her 
head.  She  was  crying.  A  maid  was  standing  be- 
side her  with  a  perplexed  and  frightened  face.  I 
sent  the  maid  away,  laid  the  papers  on  the  table, 
thought  a  moment  and  said: 

"  Here  are  all  your  papers,  Natalie.  It's  all  in 
order,  it's  all  capital,  and  I  am  very  much  pleased. 
I  am  going  away  tomorrow." 

She  went  on  crying.  I  went  into  the  drawing- 
room  and  sat  there  in  the  dark.  My  wife's  sobs, 
her  sighs,  accused  me  of  something,  and  to  justify 
myself  I  remembered  the  whole  of  our  quarrel, 
starting  from  my  unhappy  idea  of  inviting  my  wife 
to  our  consultation  and  ending  with  the  exercise 
books  and  these  tears.  It  was  an  ordinary  attack  of 
our  conjugal  hatred,  senseless  and  unseemly,  such  as 
had  been  frequent  during  our  married  life,  but  what 
had  the  starving  peasants  to  do  with  it?  How  could 
it  have  happened  that  they  had  become  a  bone  of 
contention  between  us?  It  was  just  as  though  pur- 
suing one  another  we  had  accidentally  run  up  to  the 
altar  and  had  carried  on  a  quarrel  there. 

"  Natalie,"  I  said  softly  from  the  drawing-room, 
"  hush,  hush !  " 

To  cut  short  her  weeping  and  make  an  end  of  this 
agonizing  state  of  affairs,  I  ought  to  have  gone  up 
to  my  wife  and  comforted  her,  caressed  her,  or 
apologized;  but  how  could  I  do  it  so  that  she  would 
believe  me?  How  could  I  persuade  the  wild  duck, 
living  in  captivity  and  hating  me,  that  it  was  dear  to 
me,  and  that  I  felt  for  its  sufferings?  I  had  never 
known  my  wife,  so  I  had  never  known  how  to  talk 


42  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

to  her  or  what  to  talk  about.  Her  appearance  I 
knew  very  well  and  appreciated  it  as  it  deserved,  but 
her  spiritual,  moral  world,  her  mind,  her  outlook  on 
life,  her  frequent  changes  of  mood,  her  eyes  full  of 
hatred,  her  disdain,  the  scope  and  variety  of  her 
reading  which  sometimes  struck  me,  or,  for  instance, 
the  nun-like  expression  I  had  seen  on  her  face  the 
day  before  —  all  that  was  unknown  and  incompre- 
hensible to  me.  When  in  my  collisions  with  her  I 
tried  to  define  what  sort  of  a  person  she  was,  my 
psychology  went  no  farther  than  deciding  that  she 
was  giddy,  impractical,  ill-tempered,  guided  by  femi- 
nine logic;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  that  was  quite 
sufficient.  But  now  that  she  was  crying  I  had  a 
passionate  desire  to  know  more. 

The  weeping  ceased.  I  went  up  to  my  wife.  She 
sat  up  on  the  couch,  and,  with  her  head  propped  in 
both  hands,  looked  fixedly  and  dreamily  at  the  fire. 

"  I  am  going  away  tomorrow  morning,"  I  said. 

She  said  nothing.  I  walked  across  the  room, 
sighed,  and  said: 

"  Natalie,  when  you  begged  me  to  go  away,  you 
said:  'I  will  forgive  you  everything,  everything. 
...  So  you  think  I  have  wronged  you.  I  beg  you 
calmly  and  in  brief  terms  to  formulate  the  wrong 
I've  done  you." 

"  I  am  worn  out.  Afterwards,  some  time  .  .  ." 
said  my  wife. 

"How  am  I  to  blame?"  I  went  on.  "What 
have  I  done?  Tell  me:  you  are  young  and  beauti- 
ful, you  want  to  live,  and  I  am  nearly  twice  your 
age  and  hated  by  you,  but  is  that  my  fault?     I  didn't 


The  Wife  43 

marry  you  by  force.  But  if  you  want  to  live  in  free- 
dom, go;  I'll  give  you  your  liberty.  You  can  go 
and  love  whom  you  please.  ...  I  will  give  you  a 
divorce." 

"  That's  not  what  I  want,"  she  said.  "  You  know 
I  used  to  love  you  and  always  thought  of  myself 
as  older  than  you.  That's  all  nonsense.  .  .  .  You 
are  not  to  blame  for  being  older  or  for  my  being 
younger,  or  that  I  might  be  able  to  love  some  one 
else  if  I  were  free;  but  because  you  are  a  difficult 
person,  an  egoist,  and  hate  every  one." 

"  Perhaps  so.     I  don't  know,"  I  said. 

"  Please  go  away.  You  want  to  go  on  at  me 
till  the  morning,  but  I  warn  you  I  am  quite  worn  out 
and  cannot  answer  you.  You  promised  me  to  go  to 
town.     I  am  very  grateful;  I  ask  nothing  more." 

My  wife  wanted  me  to  go  away,  but  it  was  not 
easy  for  me  to  do  that.  I  was  dispirited  and  I 
dreaded  the  big,  cheerless,  chill  rooms  that  I  was  so 
weary  of.  Sometimes  when  I  had  an  ache  or  a  pain 
as  a  child,  I  used  to  huddle  up  to  my  mother  or  my 
nurse,  and  when  I  hid  my  face  in  the  warm  folds 
of  their  dress,  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  I  were  hid- 
ing from  the  pain.  And  in  the  same  way  it  seemed 
to  me  now  that  I  could  only  hide  from  my  uneasiness 
in  this  little  room  beside  my  wife.  I  sat  down  and 
screened  away  the  light  from  my  eyes  with  my  hand. 
.  .   .  There  was  a  stillness. 

"  How  are  you  to  blame?  "  my  wife  said  after  a 
long  silence,  looking  at  me  with  red  eyes  that 
gleamed  with  tears.  "  You  are  very  well  educated 
and  very  well  bred,  very  honest,  just,   and  high- 


44  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

principled,  but  in  you  the  effect  of  all  that  is  that 
wherever  you  go  you  bring  suffocation,  oppression, 
something  insulting  and  humiliating  to  the  utmost 
degree.  You  have  a  straightforward  way  of  look- 
ing at  things,  and  so  you  hate  the  whole  world.  You 
hate  those  who  have  faith,  because  faith  is  an  expres- 
sion of  ignorance  and  lack  of  culture,  and  at  the 
same  time  you  hate  those  who  have  no  faith  for  hav- 
ing no  faith  and  no  ideals;  you  hate  old  people  for 
being  conservative  and  behind  the  times,  and  young 
people  for  free-thinking.  The  interests  of  the  peas- 
antry and  of  Russia  are  dear  to  you,  and  so  you  hate 
the  peasants  because  you  suspect  every  one  of  them 
of  being  a  thief  and  a  robber.  You  hate  every 
one.  You  are  just,  and  always  take  your  stand  on 
your  legal  rights,  and  so  you  are  always  at  law  with 
the  peasants  and  your  neighbours.  You  have  had 
twenty  bushels  of  rye  stolen,  and  your  love  of  order 
has  made  you  complain  of  the  peasants  to  the  Gov- 
ernor and  all  the  local  authorities,  and  to  send  a  com- 
plaint of  the  local  authorities  to  Petersburg.  Legal 
justice!  "  said  my  wife,  and  she  laughed.  "  On  the 
ground  of  your  legal  rights  and  in  the  interests  of 
morality,  you  refuse  to  give  me  a  passport.  Law 
and  morality  is  such  that  a  self-respecting  healthy 
young  woman  has  to  spend  her  life  in  idleness,  in  de- 
pression, and  in  continual  apprehension,  and  to  re- 
ceive in  return  board  and  lodging  from  a  man  she 
does  not  love.  You  have  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  law,  you  are  very  honest  and  just,  you  respect 
marriage  and  family  life,  and  the  effect  of  all  that 
is  that  all  your  life  you  have  not  done  one  kind 


The  Wife  45 

action,  that  every  one  hates  you,  that  you  are  on  bad 
terms  with  every  one,  and  the  seven  years  that  you 
have  been  married  you've  only  lived  seven  months 
with  your  wife.  You've  had  no  wife  and  I've  had 
no  husband.  To  live  with  a  man  lrke  you  is  impos- 
sible; there  is  no  way  of  doing  it.  In  the  early  years 
I  was  frightened  with  you,  and  now  I  am  ashamed. 
.  .  .  That's  how  my  best  years  have  been  wasted. 
When  I  fought  with  you  I  ruined  my  temper,  grew 
shrewish,  coarse,  timid,  mistrustful.  .  .  .  Oh,  but 
what's  the  use  of  talking !  As  though  you  wanted  to 
understand!     Go  upstairs,  and  God  be  with  you!  " 

My  wife  lay  down  on  the  couch  and  sank  into 
thought. 

"  And  how  splendid,  how  enviable  life  might  have 
been !  "  she  said  softly,  looking  reflectively  into  the 
fire.  "What  a  life  it  might  have  been!  There's 
no  bringing  it  back  now." 

Any  one  who  has  lived  in  the  country  in  winter  and 
knows  those  long  dreary,  still  evenings  when  even 
the  dogs  are  too  bored  to  bark  and  even  the  clocks 
seem  weary  of  ticking,  and  any  one  who  on  such 
evenings  has  been  troubled  by  awakening  conscience 
and  has  moved  restlessly  about,  trying  now  to 
smother  his  conscience,  now  to  interpret  it,  will  un- 
derstand the  distraction  and  the  pleasure  my  wife's 
voice  gave  me  as  it  sounded  in  the  snug  little  room, 
telling  me  I  was  a  bad  man.  I  did  not  understand 
what  was  wanted  of  me  by  my  conscience,  and  my 
wife,  translating  it  in  her  feminine  way,  made  clear 
to  me  in  the  meaning  of  my  agitation.  As  often  be- 
fore in  the  moments  of  intense  uneasiness,  I  guessed 


46  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

that  the  whole  secret  lay,  not  in  the  starving  peas- 
ants, but  in  my  not  being  the  sort  of  a  man  I  ought 
to  be. 

My  wife  got  up  with  an  effort  and  came  up  to  me. 

"  Pavel  Andreitch,"  she  said,  smiling  mournfully, 
"  forgive  me,  I  don't  believe  you:  you  are  not  going 
away,  but  I  will  ask  you  one  more  favour.  Call 
this  " —  she  pointed  to  her  papers  — "  self-deception, 
feminine  logic,  a  mistake,  as  you  like;  but  do  not 
hinder  me.  It's  all  that  is  left  me  in  life."  She 
turned  away  and  paused.  "  Before  this  I  had  noth- 
ing. I  have  wasted  my  youth  in  fighting  with  you. 
Now  I  have  caught  at  this  and  am  living;  T  am 
happy.  ...  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  found  in  this 
a  means  of  justifying  my  existence." 

"  Natalie,  you  are  a  good  woman,  a  woman  of 
ideas,"  I  said,  looking  at  my  wife  enthusiastically, 
11  and  everything  you  say  and  do  is  intelligent  and 
fine." 

I  walked  about  the  room  to  conceal  my  emotion. 

"  Natalie,"  I  went  on  a  minute  later,  "  before  I 
go  away,  I  beg  of  you  as  a  special  favour,  help  me  to 
do  something  for  the  starving  peasants!  " 

"  What  can  I  do?  "  said  my  wife,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.      "  Here's  the  subscription  list." 

She  rummaged  among  the  papers  and  found  the 
subscription  list. 

"  Subscribe  some  money,"  she  said,  and  from  her 
tone  I  could  see  that  she  did  not  attach  great  impor- 
tance to  her  subscription  list;  "  that  is  the  only  way 
in  which  you  can  take  part  in  the  work." 

I  took  the  list  and  wrote  :     "  Anonymous,  5,000." 


The  Wife  47 

In  this  "  anonymous  "  there  was  something  wrong, 
false,  conceited,  but  I  only  realized  that  when  I  no- 
ticed that  my  wife  flushed  very  red  and  hurriedly 
thrust  the  list  into  the  heap  of  papers.  We  both 
felt  ashamed;  I  felt  that  I  must  at  all  costs  efface 
this  clumsiness  at  once,  or  else  I  should  feel  ashamed 
afterwards,  in  the  train  and  at  Petersburg.  But 
how  efface  it?     What  was  I  to  say? 

"  I  fully  approve  of  what  you  are  doing,  Natalie," 
I  said  genuinely,  "  and  I  wish  you  every  success. 
But  allow  me  at  parting  to  give  you  one  piece  of 
advice,  Natalie;  be  on  your  guard  with  Sobol,  and 
with  your  assistants  generally,  and  don't  trust  them 
blindly.  I  don't  say  they  are  not  honest,  but  they 
are  not  gentlefolks;  they  are  people  with  no  ideas, 
no  ideals,  no  faith,  with  no  aim  in  life,  no  definite 
principles,  and  the  whole  object  of  their  life  is  com- 
prised in  the  rouble.  Rouble,  rouble,  rouble !  "  I 
sighed.  "  They  are  fond  of  getting  money  easily, 
for  nothing,  and  in  that  respect  the  better  educated 
they  are  the  more  they  are  to  be  dreaded." 

My  wife  went  to  the  couch  and  lay  down. 

"  Ideas,"  she  brought  out,  listlessly  and  reluc- 
tantly, "  ideas,  ideals,  objects  of  life,  principles  .  .  . 
you  always  used  to  use  those  words  when  you  wanted 
to  insult  or  humiliate  some  one,  or  say  something 
unpleasant.  Yes,  that's  your  way:  if  with  your 
views  and  such  an  attitude  to  people  you  are  allowed 
to  take  part  in  anything,  you  would  destroy  it  from 
the  first  day.     It's  time  you  understand  that." 

She  sighed  and  paused. 

"  It's  coarseness  of  character,  Pavel  Andreitch," 


48  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

she  said.  "  You  are  well-bred  and  educated,  but 
what  a  .  .  .  Scythian  you  are  in  reality!  That's 
because  you  lead  a  cramped  life  full  of  hatred,  see 
no  one,  and  read  nothing  but  your  engineering  books. 
And,  you  know,  there  are  good  people,  good  books ! 
Yes  .  .  .  but  I  am  exhausted  and  it  wearies  me  to 
talk.     I  ought  to  be  in  bed." 

"  So  I  am  going  away,  Natalie,"  I  said. 

"  Yes  .  .   .  yes.  .  .  .  Mercl  .  .  ." 

I  stood  still  for  a  little  while,  then  went  upstairs. 
An  hour  later  —  it  was  half-past  one  —  I  went 
downstairs  again  with  a  candle  in  my  hand  to  speak 
to  my  wife.  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  going  to  say 
to  her,  but  I  felt  that  I  must  say  something  very  im- 
portant and  necessary.  She  was  not  in  her  study, 
the  door  leading  to  her  bedroom  was  closed. 

"  Natalie,  are  you  asleep?  "  I  asked  softly. 

There  was  no  answer. 

I  stood  near  the  door,  sighed,  and  went  into  the 
drawing-room.  There  I  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  put 
out  the  candle,  and  remained  sitting  in  the  dark  till 
the  dawn. 


VI 

I  went  to  the  station  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
There  was  no  frost,  but  snow  was  falling  in  big  wet 
flakes  and  an  unpleasant  damp  wind  was  blowing. 

We  passed  a  pond  and  then  a  birch  copse,  and 
then  began  going  uphill  along  the  road  which  I  could 
see  from  my  window.  I  turned  round  to  take  a 
last  look  at  my  house,  but  I  could  see  nothing  for  the 


The  Wife  49 

snow.  Soon  afterwards  dark  huts  came  into  sight 
ahead  of  us  as  in  a  fog.     It  was  Pestrovo. 

"  If  I  ever  go  out  of  my  mind,  Pestrovo  will  be 
the  cause  of  it,"  I  thought.     "  It  persecutes  me." 

We  came  out  into  the  village  street.  All  the  roofs 
were  intact,  not  one  of  them  had  been  pulled  to 
pieces;  so  my  bailiff  had  told  a  lie.  A  boy  was  pull- 
ing along  a  little  girl  and  a  baby  in  a  sledge.  An- 
other boy  of  three,  with  his  head  wrapped  up  like  a 
peasant  woman's  and  with  huge  mufflers  on  his 
hands,  was  trying  to  catch  the  flying  snowflakes  on  his 
tongue,  and  laughing.  Then  a  wagon  loaded  with 
fagots  came  toward  us  and  a  peasant  walking  beside 
it,  and  there  was  no  telling  whether  his  beard  was 
white  or  whether  it  was  covered  with  snow.  He 
recognized  my  coachman,  smiled  at  him  and  said 
something,  and  mechanically  took  off  his  hat  to  me. 
The  dogs  ran  out  of  the  yards  and  looked  inquisi- 
tively at  my  horses.  Everything  was  quiet,  ordinary, 
as  usual.  The  emigrants  had  returned,  there  was 
no  bread;  in  the  huts  "some  were  laughing,  some 
were  delirious";  but  it  all  looked  so  ordinary  that 
one  could  not  believe  it  really  was  so.  There  were 
no  distracted  faces,  no  voices  whining  for  help,  no 
weeping,  nor  abuse,  but  all  around  was  stillness, 
order,  life,  children,  sledges,  dogs  with  dishevelled 
tails.  Neither  the  children  nor  the  peasant  we  met 
were  troubled ;  why  was  I  so  troubled  ? 

Looking  at  the  smiling  peasant,  at  the  boy  with 
the  huge  mufflers,  at  the  huts,  remembering  my  wife, 
I  realized  there  was  no  calamity  that  could  daunt 
this  people;  I  felt  as  though  there  were  already  a 


50  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

breath  of  victory  in  the  air.  I  felt  proud  and  felt 
ready  to  cry  out  that  I  was  with  them  too;  but  the 
horses  were  carrying  us  away  from  the  village  into 
the  open  country,  the  snow  was  whirling,  the  wind 
was  howling,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  my  thoughts. 
Of  the  million  people  working  for  the  peasantry, 
life  itself  had  cast  me  out  as  a  useless,  incompetent, 
bad  man.  I  was  a  hindrance,  a  part  of  the  people's 
calamity;  I  was  vanquished,  cast  out,  and  I  was 
hurrying  to  the  station  to  go  away  and  hide  myself  in 
Petersburg  in  a  hotel  in  Bolshaya  Morskaya. 

An  hour  later  we  reached  the  station.  The  coach- 
man and  a  porter  with  a  disc  on  his  breast  carried  my 
trunks  into  the  ladies'  room.  My  coachman  Ni- 
kanor,  wearing  high  felt  boots  and  the  skirt  of  his 
coat  tucked  up  through  his  belt,  all  wet  with  the 
snow  and  glad  I  was  going  away,  gave  me  a  friendly 
smile  and  said: 

"  A  fortunate  journey,  your  Excellency.  God 
give  you  luck." 

Every  one,  by  the  way,  calls  me  "  your  Excel- 
lency," though  I  am  only  a  collegiate  councillor  and 
a  kammer-junker.  The  porter  told  me  the  train  had 
not  yet  left  the  next  station;  I  had  to  wait.  I  went 
outside,  and  with  my  head  heavy  from  my  sleepless 
night,  and  so  exhausted  I  could  hardly  move  my  legs, 
I  walked  aimlessly  towards  the  pump.  There  was 
not  a  soul  anywhere  near. 

"Why  am  I  going?"  I  kept  asking  myself. 
"  What  is  there  awaiting  me  there?  The  acquaint- 
ances from  whom  I  have  come  away,  loneliness,  res- 
taurant dinners,  noise,  the  electric  light,  which  makes 


The  Wife  51 

my  eyes  ache.  Where  am  I  going,  and  what  am  I 
going  for?     What  am  I  going  for?  " 

And  it  seemed  somehow  strange  to  go  away  with- 
out speaking  to  my  wife.  I  felt  that  I  was  leaving 
her  in  uncertainty.  Going  away,  I  ought  to  have 
told  that  she  was  right,  that  I  really  was  a  bad  man. 

When  I  turned  away  from  the  pump,  I  saw  in 
the  doorway  the  station-master,  of  whom  I  had  twice 
made  complaints  to  his  superiors,  turning  up  the  col- 
lar of  his  coat,  shrinking  from  the  wind  and  the 
snow.  He  came  up  to  me,  and  putting  two  fingers  to 
the  peak  of  his  cap,  told  me  with  an  expression 
of  helpless  confusion,  strained  respectfulness,  and 
hatred  on  his  face,  that  the  train  was  twenty  minutes 
late,  and  asked  me  would  I  not  like  to  wait  in  the 
warm? 

"  Thank  you,"  I  answered,  "  but  I  am  probably 
not  going.  Send  word  to  my  coachman  to  wait;  I 
have  not  made  up  my  mind." 

I  walked  to  and  fro  on  the  platform  and  thought, 
should  I  go  away  or  not?  When  the  train  came  in 
I  decided  not  to  go.  At  home  I  had  to  expect  my 
wife's  amazement  and  perhaps  her  mockery,  the  dis- 
mal upper  storey  and  my  uneasiness;  but,  still,  at  my 
age  that  was  easier  and  as  it  were  more  homelike 
than  travelling  for  two  days  and  nights  with 
strangers  to  Petersburg,  where  I  should  be  conscious 
every  minute  that  my  life  was  of  no  use  to  any  one  or 
to  anything,  and  that  it  was  approaching  its  end. 
No,  better  at  home  whatever  awaited  me  there.  .  .  . 
I  went  out  of  the  station.  It  was  awkward  by  day- 
light to  return  home,  where  every  one  was  so  glad  at 


52  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

my  going.  I  might  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  till 
evening  at  some  neighbour's,  but  with  whom? 
With  some  of  them  I  was  on  strained  relations, 
others  I  did  not  know  at  all.  I  considered  and 
thought  of  Ivan  Ivanitch. 

"  We  are  going  to  Bragino!  "  I  said  to  the  coach- 
man, getting  into  the  sledge. 

"  It's  a  long  way,"  sighed  Nikanor;  "  it  will  be 
twenty  miles,  or  maybe  twenty-five." 

"  Oh,  please,  my  dear  fellow,"  I  said  in  a  tone  as 
though  Nikanor  had  the  right  to  refuse.  "  Please 
let  us  go  !  " 

Nikanor  shook  his  head  doubtfully  and  said  slowly 
that  we  really  ought  to  have  put  in  the  shafts,  not 
Circassian,  but  Peasant  or  Siskin;  and  uncertainly, 
as  though  expecting  I  should  change  my  mind,  took 
the  reins  in  his  gloves,  stood  up,  thought  a  moment, 
and  then  raised  his  whip. 

"  A  whole  series  of  inconsistent  actions  ..."  I 
thought,  screening  my  face  from  the  snow.  "  I 
must  have  gone  out  of  my  mind.  Well,  I  don't 
care.   .  .   ." 

In  one  place,  on  a  very  high  and  steep  slope,  Ni- 
kanor carefully  held  the  horses  in  to  the  middle  of 
the  descent,  but  in  the  middle  the  horses  suddenly 
bolted  and  dashed  downhill  at  a  fearful  rate;  he 
raised  his  elbows  and  shouted  in  a  wild,  frantic  voice 
such  as  I  had  never  heard  from  him  before: 

"  Hey!  Let's  give  the  general  a  drive!  If  you 
come  to  grief  he'll  buy  new  ones,  my  darlings ! 
Hey !  look  out !     We'll  run  you  down !  " 

Only  now,  when  the  extraordinary  pace  we  were 


The  Wife  53 

going  at  took  my  breath  away,  I  noticed  that  he  was 
very  drunk.  He  must  have  been  drinking  at  the 
station.  At  the  bottom  of  the  descent  there  was  the 
crash  of  ice;  a  piece  of  dirty  frozen  snow  thrown  up 
from  the  road  hit  me  a  painful  blow  in  the  face. 

The  runaway  horses  ran  up  the  hill  as  rapidly  as 
they  had  downhill,  and  before  I  had  time  to  shout 
to  Nikanor  my  sledge  was  flying  along  on  the  level 
in  an  old  pine  forest,  and  the  tall  pines  were  stretch- 
ing out  their  shaggy  white  paws  to  me  from  all  direc- 
tions. 

"  I  have  gone  out  of  my  mind,  and  the  coachman's 
drunk,"  I  thought.     "Good!" 

I  found  Ivan  Ivanitch  at  home.  He  laughed  till 
he  coughed,  laid  his  head  on  my  breast,  and  said 
what  he  always  did  say  on  meeting  me  : 

"  You  grow  younger  and  younger.  I  don't  know 
what  dye  you  use  for  your  hair  and  your  beard;  you 
might  give  me  some  of  it." 

"  I've  come  to  return  your  call,  Ivan  Ivanitch," 
I  said  untruthfully.  "  Don't  be  hard  on  me;  I'm  a 
townsman,  conventional;  I  do  keep  count  of  calls." 

"  I  am  delighted,  my  dear  fellow.  I  am  an  old 
man;  I  like  respect.  .  .  .  Yes." 

From  his  voice  and  his  blissfully  smiling  face,  I 
could  see  that  he  was  greatly  flattered  by  my  visit. 
Two  peasant  women  helped  me  off  with  my  coat  in 
the  entry,  and  a  peasant  in  a  red  shirt  hung  it  on  a 
hook,  and  when  Ivan  Ivanitch  and  I  went  into  his 
little  study,  two  barefooted  little  girls  were  sitting  on 
the  floor  looking  at  a  picture-book;  when  they  saw 
us  they  jumped  up  and  ran  away,  and  a  tall,  thin  old 


54  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

woman  in  spectacles  came  in  at  once,  bowed  gravely 
to  me,  and  picking  up  a  pillow  from  the  sofa  and  a 
picture-book  from  the  floor,  went  away.  From  the 
adjoining  rooms  we  heard  incessant  whispering  and 
the  patter  of  bare  feet. 

"  I  am  expecting  the  doctor  to  dinner,"  said  Ivan 
Ivanitch.  "  He  promised  to  come  from  the  relief 
centre.  Yes.  He  dines  with  me  every  Wednesday, 
God  bless  him."  He  craned  towards  me  and  kissed 
me  on  the  neck.  "  You  have  come,  my  dear  fellow, 
so  you  are  not  vexed,"  he  whispered,  sniffing. 
"  Don't  be  vexed,  my  dear  creature.  Yes.  Per- 
haps it  is  annyoing,  but  don't  be  cross.  My  only 
prayer  to  God  before  I  die  is  to  live  in  peace  and 
harmony  with  all  in  the  true  way.     Yes." 

"  Forgive  me,  Ivan  Ivanitch,  I  will  put  my  feet 
on  a  chair,"  I  said,  feeling  that  I  was  so  exhausted  I 
could  not  be  myself;  I  sat  further  back  on  the  sofa 
and  put  up  my  feet  on  an  arm-chair.  My  face  was 
burning  from  the  snow  and  the  wind,  and  I  felt  as 
though  my  whole  body  were  basking  in  the  w7armth 
and  growing  weaker  from  it. 

11  It's  very  nice  here,"  I  went  on  — "  warm,  soft, 
snug  .  .  .  and  goose-feather  pens,"  I  laughed,  look- 
ing at  the  writing-table;  "  sand  instead  of  blotting- 
paper." 

"Eh?  Yes  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  .  The  writing-table 
and  the  mahogany  cupboard  here  were  made  for  my 
father  by  a  self-taught  cabinet-maker  —  Glyeb 
Butyga,  a  serf  of  General  Zhukov's.  Yes  ...  a 
great  artist  in  his  own  way." 

Listlessly   and   in   the   tone   of   a   man   dropping 


The  Wife  55 

asleep,  he  began  telling  me  about  cabinet-maker 
Butyga.  I  listened.  Then  Ivan  Ivanitch  went  into 
the  next  room  to  show  me  a  polisander  wood  chest 
of  drawers  remarkable  for  its  beauty  and  cheapness. 
He  tapped  the  chest  with  his  fingers,  then  called  my 
attention  to  a  stove  of  patterned  tiles,  such  as  one 
never  sees  now.  He  tapped  the  stove,  too,  with  his 
fingers.  There  was  an  atmosphere  of  good-natured 
simplicity  and  well-fed  abundance  about  the  chest  of 
drawers,  the  tiled  stove,  the  low  chairs,  the  pictures 
embroidered  in  wool  and  silk  on  canvas  in  solid,  ugly 
frames.  When  one  remembers  that  all  those  objects 
were  standing  in  the  same  places  and  precisely  in  the 
same  order  when  I  was  a  little  child,  and  used  to 
come  here  to  name-day  parties  with  my  mother,  it 
is  simply  unbelievable  that  they  could  ever  cease  to 
exist. 

I  thought  what  a  fearful  difference  between  Butyga 
and  me !  Butyga  who  made  things,  above  all,  sol- 
idly and  substantially,  and  seeing  in  that  his  chief  ob- 
ject, gave  to  length  of  life  peculiar  significance,  had 
no  thought  of  death,  and  probably  hardly  believed  in 
its  possibility;  I,  when  I  built  my  bridges  of  iron  and 
stone  which  would  last  a  thousand  years,  could  not 
keep  from  me  the  thought,  "  It's  not  for  long  .  .  . 
it's  no  use."  If  in  time  Butyga's  cupboard  and  my 
bridge  should  come  under  the  notice  of  some  sensi- 
ble historian  of  art,  he  would  say:  "These  were 
two  men  remarkable  in  their  own  way:  Butyga 
loved  his  fellow-creatures  and  would  not  admit  the 
thought  that  they  might  die  and  be  annihilated,  and 
so  when  he  made  his  furniture  he  had  the  immortal 


56  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

man  in  his  mind.  The  engineer  Asorin  did  not  love 
life  or  his  fellow-creatures;  even  in  the  happy  mo- 
ments of  creation,  thoughts  of  death,  of  finiteness 
and  dissolution,  were  not  alien  to  him,  and  we  see 
how  insignificant  and  finite,  how  timid  and  poor,  are 
these  lines  of  his.   .   .   ." 

"  I  only  heat  these  rooms,"  muttered  Ivan  Ivan- 
itch,  showing  me  his  rooms.  "  Ever  since  my  wife 
died  and  my  son  was  killed  in  the  war,  I  have  kept 
the  best  rooms  shut  up.     Yes  .   .   .   see  .   .   ." 

He  opened  a  door,  and  I  saw  a  big  room  with  four 
columns,  an  old  piano,  and  a  heap  of  peas  on  the 
floor;  it  smelt  cold  and  damp. 

"  The  garden  seats  are  in  the  next  room  .  .  ." 
muttered  Ivan  Ivanitch.  "  There's  no  one  to  dance 
the  mazurka  now.   .   .   .   I've  shut  them  up." 

We  heard  a  noise.  It  was  Dr.  Sobol  arriving. 
While  he  was  rubbing  his  cold  hands  and  stroking 
his  wet  beard,  I  had  time  to  notice  in  the  first  place 
that  he  had  a  very  dull  life,  and  so  was  pleased  to 
see  Ivan  Ivanitch  and  me;  and,  secondly,  that  he  was 
a  naive  and  simple-hearted  man.  He  looked  at  me 
as  though  I  were  very  glad  to  see  him  and  very  much 
interested  in  him. 

"  I  have  not  slept  for  two  nights,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  me  naively  and  stroking  his  beard.  "  One 
night  with  a  confinement,  and  the  next  I  stayed  at  a 
peasant's  with  the  bugs  biting  me  all  night.  I  am  as 
sleepy  as  Satan,  do  you  know." 

With  an  expression  on  his  face  as  though  it  could 
not  afford  me  anything  but  pleasure,  he  took  me  by 
the  arm  and  led  me  to  the  dining-room.     His  naive 


The  Wife  57 

eyes,  his  crumpled  coat,  his  cheap  tie  and  the  smell  of 
iodoform  made  an  unpleasant  impression  upon  me; 
I  felt  as  though  I  were  in  vulgar  company.  When 
we  sat  down  to  table  he  filled  my  glass  with  vodka, 
and,  smiling  helplessly,  I  drank  it;  he  put  a  piece 
of  ham  on  my  plate  and  I  ate  it  submissively. 

"  Repetitia  est  mater  studiorum,"  said  Sobol, 
hastening  to  drink  off  another  wineglassful. 
"  Would  you  believe  it,  the  joy  of  seeing  good  people 
has  driven  away  my  sleepiness?  I  have  turned  into 
a  peasant,  a  savage  in  the  wilds;  I've  grown  coarse, 
but  I  am  still  an  educated  man,  and  I  tell  you  in  good 
earnest,  it's  tedious  without  company." 

They  served  first  for  a  cold  course  white  sucking- 
pig  with  horse-radish  cream,  then  a  rich  and  very  hot 
cabbage  soup  with  pork  on  it,  with  boiled  buckwheat, 
from  which  rose  a  column  of  steam.  The  doctor 
went  on  talking,  and  I  was  soon  convinced  that  he 
was  a  weak,  unfortunate  man,  disorderly  in  external 
life.  Three  glasses  of  vodka  made  him  drunk;  he 
grew  unnaturally  lively,  ate  a  great  deal,  kept  clear- 
ing his  throat  and  smacking  his  lips,  and  already  ad- 
dressed me  in  Italian,  "  Eccellenza."  Looking 
naively  at  me  as  though  he  were  convinced  that  I  was 
very  glad  to  see  and  hear  him,  he  informed  me  that 
he  had  long  been  separated  from  his  wife  and  gave 
her  three-quarters  of  his  salary;  that  she  lived  in  the 
town  with  his  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  whom  he 
adored;  that  he  loved  another  woman,  a  widow,  well 
educated,  with  an  estate  in  the  country,  but  was 
rarely  able  to  see  her,  as  he  was  busy  with  his  work 
from  morning  till  night  and  had  not  a  free  moment. 


58 


The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


"  The  whole  day  long,  first  at  the  hospital,  then 
on  my  rounds,"  he  told  us;  "  and  I  assure  you,  Ec- 
cellenza,  I  have  not  time  to  read  a  book,  let  alone 
going  to  see  the  woman  I  love.  I've  read  nothing 
for  ten  years!  For  ten  years,  Eccellenza.  As  for 
the  financial  side  of  the  question,  ask  Ivan  Ivanitch: 
I  have  often  no  money  to  buy  tobacco." 

"  On  the  other  hand,  you  have  the  moral  satisfac- 
tion of  your  work,"  I  said. 

"  What?  "  he  asked,  and  he  winked.  "  No,"  he 
said,  "  better  let  us  drink." 

I  listened  to  the  doctor,  and,  after  my  invariable 
habit,  tried  to  take  his  measure  by  my  usual  classifi- 
cation —  materialist,  idealist,  filthy  lucre,  gregarious 
instincts,  and  so  on;  but  no  classification  fitted  him 
even  approximately;  and  strange  to  say,  while  I  sim- 
ply listened  and  looked  at  him,  he  seemed  perfectly 
clear  to  me  as  a  person,  but  as  soon  as  I  began  trying 
to  classify  him  he  became  an  exceptionally  complex, 
intricate,  and  incomprehensible  character  in  spite  of 
all  his  candour  and  simplicity.  "  Is  that  man,"  I 
asked  myself,  "  capable  of  wasting  other  people's 
money,  abusing  their  confidence,  being  disposed  to 
sponge  on  them?"  And  now  this  question,  which 
had  once  seemed  to  me  grave  and  important,  struck 
me  as  crude,  petty,  and  coarse. 

Pie  was  served;  then,  I  remember,  with  long  inter- 
vals between,  during  which  we  drank  home-made 
liquors,  they  gave  us  a  stew  of  pigeons,  some  dish  of 
giblets,  roast  sucking-pig,  partridges,  cauliflower, 
curd  dumplings,  curd  cheese  and  milk,  jelly,  and 
finally  pancakes  and  jam.     At  first  I  ate  with  great 


The  Wife  59 

relish,  especially  the  cabbage  soup  and  the  buck- 
wheat, but  afterwards  I  munched  and  swallowed  me- 
chanically, smiling  helplessly  and  unconscious  of  the 
taste  of  anything.  My  face  was  burning  from  the 
hot  cabbage  soup  and  the  heat  of  the  room.  Ivan 
Ivanitch  and  Sobol,  too,  were  crimson. 

"  To  the  health  of  your  wife,"  said  Sobol.  "  She 
likes  me.  Tell  her  her  doctor  sends  her  his  re- 
spects." 

"  She's  fortunate,  upon  my  word,"  sighed  Ivan 
Ivanitch.  "  Though  she  takes  no  trouble,  does  not 
fuss  or  worry  herself,  she  has  become  the  most  im- 
portant person  in  the  whole  district.  Almost  the 
whole  business  is  in  her  hands,  and  they  all  gather 
round  her,  the  doctor,  the  District  Captains,  and  the 
ladies.  With  people  of  the  right  sort  that  happens 
of  itself.  Yes.  .  .  .  The  apple-tree  need  take  no 
thought  for  the  apple  to  grow  on  it;  it  will  grow  of 
itself." 

"  It's  only  people  who  don't  care  who  take  no 
thought,"  said  I. 

"Eh?  Yes  ..."  muttered  Ivan  Ivanitch,  not 
catching  what  I  said,  "  that's  true.  .  .  .  One  must 
not  worry  oneself.  Just  so,  just  so.  .  .  .  Only  do 
your  duty  towards  God  and  your  neighbour,  and  then 
never  mind  what  happens." 

"  Eccellenza,"  said  Sobol  solemnly,  "  just  look  at 
nature  about  us:  if  you  poke  your  nose  or  your  ear 
out  of  your  fur  collar  it  will  be  frost-bitten;  stay  in 
the  fields  for  one  hour,  you'll  be  buried  in  the  snow; 
while  the  village  is  just  the  same  as  in  the  days  of 
Rurik,    the    same    Petchenyegs    and    Polovtsi.     It's 


60  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

nothing  but  being  burnt  down,  starving,  and  strug- 
gling against  nature  in  every  way.  What  was  I 
saying?  Yes!  If  one  thinks  about  it,  you  know, 
looks  into  it  and  analyses  all  this  hotchpotch,  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  call  it  so,  it's  not  life  but  more  like 
a  fire  in  a  theatre !  Any  one  who  falls  down  or 
screams  with  terror,  or  rushes  about,  is  the  worst 
enemy  of  good  order;  one  must  stand  up  and  look 
sharp,  and  not  stir  a  hair!  There's  no  time  for 
whimpering  and  busying  oneself  with  trifles.  When 
you  have  to  deal  with  elemental  forces  you  must 
put  out  force  against  them,  be  firm  and  as  unyielding 
as  a  stone.  Isn't  that  right,  grandfather?  "  He 
turned  to  Ivan  Ivanitch  and  laughed.  "  I  am  no 
better  than  a  woman  myself;  I  am  a  limp  rag,  a 
flabby  creature,  so  I  hate  flabbiness.  I  can't  endure 
petty  feelings!  One  mopes,  another  is  frightened, 
a  third  will  come  straight  in  here  and  say:  '  Fie  on 
you !  Here  you've  guzzled  a  dozen  courses  and 
you  talk  about  the  starving!'  That's  petty  and 
stupid !  A  fourth  will  reproach  you,  Eccellenza, 
for  being  rich.  Excuse  me,  Eccellenza,"  he  went  on 
in  a  loud  voice,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart,  "  but 
your  having  set  our  magistrate  the  task  of  hunting 
day  and  night  for  your  thieves  —  excuse  me,  that's 
also  petty  on  your  part.  I  am  a  little  drunk,  so 
that's  why  I  say  this  now,  but  you  know,  it  is  petty!  " 

"Who's  asking  him  to  worry  himself?  I  don't 
understand !  "  I  said,  getting  up. 

I  suddenly  felt  unbearably  ashamed  and  mortified, 
and  I  walked  round  the  table. 


The  Wife  61 

"  Who  asks  him  to  worry  himself?  I  didn't  ask 
him  to.   .   .   .   Damn  him!" 

"  They  have  arrested  three  men  and  let  them  go 
again.  They  turned  out  not  to  be  the  right  ones, 
and  now  they  are  looking  for  a  fresh  lot,"  said  Sobol, 
laughing.      "  It's  too  bad!  " 

"  I  did  not  ask  him  to  worry  himself,"  said  I,  al- 
most crying  with  excitement.  "What's  it  all  for? 
What's  it  all  for?  Well,  supposing  I  was  wrong, 
supposing  I  have  done  wrong,  why  do  they  try  to  put 
me  more  in  the  wrong?  " 

"  Come,  come,  come,  come !  "  said  Sobol,  trying  to 
soothe  me.  "  Come !  I  have  had  a  drop,  that  is 
why  I  said  it.  My  tongue  is  my  enemy.  Come," 
he  sighed,  "  we  have  eaten  and  drunk  wine,  and  now 
for  a  nap." 

He  got  up  from  the  table,  kissed  Ivan  Ivanitch  on 
the  head,  and  staggering  from  repletion,  went  out  of 
the  dining-room.  Ivan  Ivanitch  and  I  smoked  in 
silence. 

"  I  don't  sleep  after  dinner,  my  dear,"  said  Ivan 
Ivanitch,  "  but  you  have  a  rest  in  the  lounge-room." 

I  agreed.  In  the  half-dark  and  warmly  heated 
room  they  called  the  lounge-room,  there  stood 
against  the  walls  long,  wide  sofas,  solid  and  heavy, 
the  work  of  Butyga  the  cabinet  maker;  on  them  lay 
high,  soft,  white  beds,  probably  made  by  the  old 
woman  in  spectacles.  On  one  of  them  Sobol,  without 
his  coat  and  boots,  already  lay  asleep  with  his  face 
to  the  back  of  the  sofa;  another  bed  was  awaiting 
me.     I  took  off  my  coat  and  boots,  and,  overcome  by 


62  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

fatigue,  by  the  spirit  of  Butyga  which  hovered  over 
the  quiet  lounge-room,  and  by  the  light,  caressing 
snore  of  Sobol,  I  lay  down  submissively. 

And  at  once  I  began  dreaming  of  my  wife,  of  her 
room,  of  the  station-master  with  his  face  full  of 
hatred,  the  heaps  of  snow,  a  fire  in  the  theatre.  .  .  . 
I  dreamed  of  the  peasants  who  had  stolen  twenty 
sacks  of  rye  out  of  my  barn.   .   .   . 

"  Anyway,  it's  a  good  thing  the  magistrate  let 
them  go,"  I  said. 

I  woke  up  at  the  sound  of  my  own  voice,  looked 
for  a  moment  in  perplexity  at  Sobol's  broad  back,  at 
the  buckles  of  his  waistcoat,  at  his  thick  heels,  then 
lay  down  again  and  fell  asleep. 

When  I  woke  up  the  second  time  it  was  quite  dark. 
Sobol  was  asleep.  There  was  peace  in  my  heart, 
and  I  longed  to  make  haste  home.  I  dressed  and 
went  out  of  the  lounge-room.  Ivan  Ivanitch  was 
sitting  in  a  big  arm-chair  in  his  study,  absolutely 
motionless,  staring  at  a  fixed  point,  and  it  was  evi- 
dent that  he  had  been  in  the  same  state  of  petrifac- 
tion all  the  while  I  had  been  asleep. 

"  Good!  "  I  said,  yawning.  "  I  feel  as  though  I 
had  woken  up  after  breaking  the  fast  at  Easter.  I 
shall  often  come  and  see  you  now.  Tell  me,  did  my 
wife  ever  dine  here?  " 

"  So-ome-ti-mes  .  .  .  sometimes,"  muttered  Ivan 
Ivanitch,  making  an  effort  to  stir.  "  She  dined  here 
last  Saturday.     Yes.   .  .  .  She  likes  me." 

After  a  silence  I  said: 

"  Do  you  remember,  Ivan  Ivanitch,  you  told  me  I 
had  a  disagreeable  character  and  that  it  was  difficult 


The  Wife  63 

to  get  on  with  me?  But  what  am  I  to  do  to  make 
my  character  different?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear  boy.  .  .  .  I'm  a  feeble 
old  man,  I  can't  advise  you.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  But  I 
said  that  to  you  at  the  time  because  I  am  fond  of  you 
and  fond  of  your  wife,  and  I  was  fond  of  your 
father.  .  .  .  Yes.  I  shall  soon  die,  and  what  need 
have  I  to  conceal  things  from  you  or  to  tell  you 
lies?  So  I  tell  you:  I  am  very  fond  of  you,  but  I 
don't  respect  you.     No,  I  don't  respect  you." 

He  turned  towards  me  and  said  in  a  breathless 
whisper: 

"  It's  impossible  to  respect  you,  my  dear  fellow. 
You  look  like  a  real  man.  You  have  the  figure  and 
deportment  of  the  French  President  Carnot  —  I  saw 
a  portrait  of  him  the  other  day  in  an  illustrated 
paper  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  .  You  use  lofty  language,  and 
you  are  clever,  and  you  are  high  up  in  the  service 
beyond  all  reach,  but  haven't  real  soul,  my  dear  boy 
.  .  .  there's  no  strength  in  it." 

"  A  Scythian,  in  fact,"  I  laughed.  "  But  what 
about  my  wife  ?  Tell  me  something  about  my  wife ; 
you  know  her  better." 

I  wanted  to  talk  about  my  wife,  but  Sobol  came  in 
and  prevented  me. 

II  I've  had  a  sleep  and  a  wash,"  he  said,  looking 
at  me  naively.  "  I'll  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  some 
rum  in  it  and  go  home." 


64  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


VII 

It  was  by  now  past  seven.  Besides  Ivan  Ivanitch, 
women  servants,  the  old  dame  in  spectacles,  the  little 
girls  and  the  peasant,  all  accompanied  us  from  the 
hall  out  on  to  the  steps,  wishing  us  good-bye  and  all 
sorts  of  blessings,  while  near  the  horses  in  the  dark- 
ness there  were  standing  and  moving  about  men  with 
lanterns,  telling  our  coachmen  how  and  which  way  to 
drive,  and  wishing  us  a  lucky  journey.  The  horses, 
the  men,  and  the  sledges  were  white. 

"  Where  do  all  these  people  come  from?  "  I  asked 
as  my  three  horses  and  the  doctor's  two  moved  at  a 
walking  pace  out  of  the  yard. 

"  They  are  all  his  serfs,"  said  Sobol.  "  The  new 
order  has  not  reached  him  yet.  Some  of  the  old 
servants  are  living  out  their  lives  with  him,  and  then 
there  are  orphans  of  all  sorts  who  have  nowhere  to 
go;  there  are  some,  too,  who  insist  on  living  there, 
there's  no  turning  them  out.     A  queer  old  man!  " 

Again  the  flying  horses,  the  strange  voice  of 
drunken  Nikanor,  the  wind  and  the  persistent  snow, 
which  got  into  one's  eyes,  one's  mouth,  and  every 
fold  of  one's  fur  coat.   .  .   . 

"  Well,  I  am  running  a  rig,"  I  thought,  while  my 
bells  chimed  in  with  the  doctor's,  the  wind  whistled, 
the  coachmen  shouted;  and  while  this  frantic  uproar 
was  going  on,  I  recalled  all  the  details  of  that  strange 
wild  day,  unique  in  my  life,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  really  had  gone  out  of  my  mind  or  become  a  differ- 


The  Wife  65 

ent  man.  It  was  as  though  the  man  I  had  been  till 
that  day  were  already  a  stranger  to  me. 

The  doctor  drove  behind  and  kept  talking  loudly 
with  his  coachman.  From  time  to  time  he  overtook 
me,  drove  side  by  side,  and  always,  with  the  same 
naive  confidence  that  it  was  very  pleasant  to  me, 
offered  me  a  cigarette  or  asked  for  the  matches. 
Or,  overtaking  me,  he  would  lean  right  out  of  his 
sledge,  and  waving  about  the  sleeves  of  his  fur  coat, 
which  were  at  least  twice  as  long  as  his  arms,  shout: 

"Go  it,  Vaska !  Beat  the  thousand  roublers! 
Hey,  my  kittens  !  " 

And  to  the  accompaniment  of  loud,  malicious 
laughter  from  Sobol  and  his  Vaska  the  doctor's  kit- 
tens raced  ahead.  My  Nikanor  took  it  as  an  affront, 
and  held  in  his  three  horses,  but  when  the  doctor's 
bells  had  passed  out  of  hearing,  he  raised  his  elbows, 
shouted,  and  our  horses  flew  like  mad  in  pursuit. 
We  drove  into  a  village,  there  were  glimpses  of 
lights,  the  silhouettes  of  huts.  Some  one  shouted: 
"Ah,  the  devils!"  We  seemed  to  have  galloped 
a  mile  and  a  half,  and  still  it  was  the  village  street 
and  there  seemed  no  end  to  it.  When  we  caught  up 
the  doctor  and  drove  more  quietly,  he  asked  for 
matches  and  said: 

"  Now  try  and  feed  that  street!  And,  you  know, 
there  are  five  streets  like  that,  sir.  Stay,  stay,"  he 
shouted.  "Turn  in  at  the  tavern!  We  must  get 
warm  and  let  the  horses  rest." 

They  stopped  at  the  tavern. 

"  I  have  more  than  one  village  like  that  in  my 


66  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

district,"  said  the  doctor,  opening  a  heavy  door  with 
a  squeaky  block,  and  ushering  me  in  front  of  him. 
"  If  you  look  in  broad  daylight  you  can't  see  to  the 
end  of  the  street,  and  there  are  side-streets,  too,  and 
one  can  do  nothing  but  scratch  one's  head.  It's  hard 
to  do  anything." 

We  went  into  the  best  room  where  there  was  a 
strong  smell  of  table-cloths,  and  at  our  entrance  a 
sleepy  peasant  in  a  waistcoat  and  a  shirt  worn  out- 
side his  trousers  jumped  up  from  a  bench.  Sobol 
asked  for  some  beer  and  I  asked  for  tea. 

"  It's  hard  to  do  anything,"  said  Sobol.  "  Your 
wife  has  faith;  I  respect  her  and  have  the  greatest 
reverence  for  her,  but  I  have  no  great  faith  myself. 
As  long  as  our  relations  to  the  people  continue  to 
have  the  character  of  ordinary  philanthropy,  as 
shown  in  orphan  asylums  and  almshouses,  so  long 
we  shall  only  be  shuffling,  shamming,  and  deceiving 
ourselves,  and  nothing  more.  Our  relations  ought 
to  be  businesslike,  founded  on  calculation,  knowl- 
edge, and  justice.  My  Vaska  has  been  working  for 
me  all  his  life;  his  crops  have  failed,  he  is  sick  and 
starving.  If  I  give  him  fifteen  kopecks  a  day,  by  so 
so  doing  I  try  to  restore  him  to  his  former  condition 
as  a  workman;  that  is,  I  am  first  and  foremost  look- 
ing after  my  own  interests,  and  yet  for  some  reason 
I  call  that  fifteen  kopecks  relief,  charity,  good  works. 
Now  let  us  put  it  like  this.  On  the  most  modest 
computation,  reckoning  seven  kopecks  a  soul  and  five 
souls  a  family,  one  needs  three  hundred  and  fifty 
roubles  a  day  to  feed  a  thousand  families.  That 
sum  is  fixed  by  our  practical  duty  to  a  thousand 


The  Wife  67 

families.  Meanwhile  we  give  not  three  hundred 
and  fifty  a  day,  but  only  ten,  and  say  that  that  is 
relief,  charity,  that  that  makes  your  wife  and  all  of 
us  exceptionally  good  people  and  hurrah  for  our 
humaneness.  That  is  it,  my  dear  soul !  Ah !  if  we 
would  talk  less  of  being  humane  and  calculated 
more,  reasoned,  and  took  a  conscientious  attitude  to 
our  duties !  How  many  such  humane,  sensitive  peo- 
ple there  are  among  us  who  tear  about  in  all  good 
faith  with  subscription  lists,  but  don't  pay  their 
tailors  or  their  cooks.  There  is  no  logic  in  our  life; 
that's  what  it  is !     No  logic !  " 

We  were  silent  for  a  while.  I  was  making  a  men- 
tal calculation  and  said: 

"  I  will  feed  a  thousand  families  for  two  hundred 
days.     Come  and  see  me  tomorrow  to  talk  it  over." 

I  was  pleased  that  this  was  said  quite  simply,  and 
was  glad  that  Sobol  answered  me  still  more  simply : 

"  Right." 

We  paid  for  what  we  had  and  went  out  of  the 
tavern. 

"  I  like  going  on  like  this,"  said  Sobol,  getting  into 
the  sledge.  "  Eccellenza,  oblige  me  with  a  match. 
I've  forgotten  mine  in  the  tavern." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  his  horses  fell  behind, 
and  the  sound  of  his  bells  was  lost  in  the  roar  of 
the  snow-storm.  Reaching  home,  I  walked  about 
my  rooms,  trying  to  think  things  over  and  to  define 
my  position  clearly  to  myself;  I  had  not  one  word, 
one  phrase,  ready  for  my  wife.  My  brain  was  not 
working. 

But  without  thinking  of  anything,  I  went  down- 


68  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

stairs  to  my  wife.  She  was  in  her  room,  in  the  same 
pink  dressing-gown,  and  standing  in  the  same  atti- 
tude as  though  screening  her  papers  from  me.  On 
her  face  was  an  expression  of  perplexity  and  irony, 
and  it  was  evident  that  having  heard  of  my  arrival, 
she  had  prepared  herself  not  to  cry,  not  to  entreat 
me,  not  to  defend  herself,  as  she  had  done  the  day 
before,  but  to  laugh  at  me,  to  answer  me  contemptu- 
ously, and  to  act  with  decision.  Her  face  was  say- 
ing:    "  If  that's  how  it  is,  good-bye." 

"  Natalie,  I've  not  gone  away,"  I  said,  "  but  it's 
not  deception.  I  have  gone  out  of  my  mind;  I've 
grown  old,  I'm  ill,  I've  become  a  different  man  — 
think  as  you  like.  .  .  .  I've  shaken  off  my  old  self 
with  horror,  with  horror;  I  despise  him  and  am 
ashamed  of  him,  and  the  new  man  who  has  been  in 
me  since  yesterday  will  not  let  me  go  away.  Do  not 
drive  me  away,  Natalie  !  " 

She  looked  intently  into  my  face  and  believed  me, 
and  there  was  a  gleam  of  uneasiness  in  her  eyes. 
Enchanted  by  her  presence,  warmed  by  the  warmth 
of  her  room,  I  muttered  as  in  delirium,  holding  out 
my  hands  to  her: 

"  I  tell  you,  I  have  no  one  near  to  me  but  you. 
I  have  never  for  one  minute  ceased  to  miss  you,  and 
only  obstinate  vanity  prevented  me  from  owning  it. 
The  past,  when  we  lived  as  husband  and  wife,  can- 
not be  brought  back,  and  there's  no  need;  but  make 
me  your  servant,  take  all  my  property,  and  give  it 
away  to  any  one  you  like.  I  am  at  peace,  Natalie, 
I  am  content.   ...  I  am  at  peace." 

My  wife,  looking  intently  and  with  curiosity  into 


The  Wife  69 

my  face,  suddenly  uttered  a  faint  cry,  burst  into 
tears,  and  ran  into  the  next  room.  I  went  upstairs 
to  my  own  storey. 

An  hour  later  I  was  sitting  at  my  table,  writing 
my  "  History  of  Railways,"  and  the  starving  peas- 
ants did  not  now  hinder  me  from  doing  so.  Now  I 
feel  no  uneasiness.  Neither  the  scenes  of  disorder 
which  I  saw  when  I  went  the  round  of  the  huts  at 
Pestrovo  with  my  wife  and  Sobol  the  other  day,  nor 
malignant  rumours,  nor  the  mistakes  of  the  people 
around  me,  nor  old  age  close  upon  me  —  nothing 
disturbs  me.  Just  as  the  flying  bullets  do  not  hinder 
soldiers  from  talking  of  their  own  affairs,  eating  and 
cleaning  their  boots,  so  the  starving  peasants  do  not 
hinder  me  from  sleeping  quietly  and  looking  after 
my  personal  affairs.  In  my  house  and  far  around  it 
there  is  in  full  swing  the  work  which  Dr.  Sobol 
calls  "  an  orgy  of  philanthropy."  My  wife  often 
comes  up  to  me  and  looks  about  my  rooms  uneasily, 
as  though  looking  for  what  more  she  can  give  to  the 
starving  peasants  "  to  justify  her  existence,"  and  I 
see  that,  thanks  to  her,  there  will  soon  be  nothing  of 
our  property  left  and  we  shall  be  poor;  but  that  does 
not  trouble  me,  and  I  smile  at  her  gaily.  What  will 
happen  in  the  future  I  don't  know. 


DIFFICULT  PEOPLE 


DIFFICULT  PEOPLE 

Yevgraf  Ivanovitch  Shiryaev,  a  small  farmer, 
whose  father,  a  parish  priest,  now  deceased,  had  re- 
ceived a  gift  of  three  hundred  acres  of  land  from 
Madame  Kuvshinnikov,  a  general's  widow,  was 
standing  in  a  corner  before  a  copper  washing-stand, 
washing  his  hands.  As  usual,  his  face  looked  anx- 
ious and  ill-humoured,  and  his  beard  was  uncombed. 

"What  weather!  "  he  said.  "  It's  not  weather, 
but  a  curse  laid  upon  us.     It's  raining  again!  " 

He  grumbled  on,  while  his  family  sat  waiting  at 
table  for  him  to  have  finished  washing  his  hands  be- 
fore beginning  dinner.  Fedosya  Semyonovna,  his 
wife,  his  son  Pyotr,  a  student,  his  eldest  daughter 
Varvara,  and  three  small  boys,  had  been  sitting  wait- 
ing a  long  time.  The  boys  —  Kolka,  Vanka,  and 
Arhipka  —  grubby,  snub-nosed  little  fellows  with 
chubby  faces  and  tousled  hair  that  wanted  cutting, 
moved  their  chairs  impatiently,  while  their  elders 
sat  without  stirring,  and  apparently  did  not  care 
whether  they  ate  their  dinner  or  waited.   .   .   . 

As  though  trying  their  patience,  Shiryaev  deliber- 
ately dried  his  hands,  deliberately  said  his  prayer, 
and  sat  down  to  the  table  without  hurrying  himself. 
Cabbage-soup  was  served  immediately.  The  sound 
of  carpenters'  axes  (Shiryaev  was  having  a  new  barn 

73 


74  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

built)    and  the  laughter  of  Fomka,  their  labourer, 
teasing  the  turkey,  floated  in  from  the  courtyard. 

Big,  sparse  drops  of  rain  pattered  on  the  window. 

Pyotr,  a  round-shouldered  student  in  spectacles, 
kept  exchanging  glances  with  his  mother  as  he  ate  his 
dinner.  Several  times  he  laid  down  his  spoon  and 
cleared  his  throat,  meaning  to  begin  to  speak,  but 
after  an  intent  look  at  his  father  he  fell  to  eating 
again.  At  last,  when  the  porridge  had  been  served, 
he  cleared  his  throat  resolutely  and  said: 

"  I  ought  to  go  tonight  by  the  evening  train.  I 
out  to  have  gone  before;  I  have  missed  a  fort- 
night as  it  is.  The  lectures  begin  on  the  first  of 
September." 

"Well,  go,"  Shiryaev  assented;  "why  are  you 
lingering  on  here?  Pack  up  and  go,  and  good  luck 
to  you." 

A  minute  passed  in  silence. 

"  He  must  have  money  for  the  journey,  Yevgraf 
Ivanovitch,"  the  mother  observed  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Money?  To  be  sure,  you  can't  go  without 
money.  Take  it  at  once,  since  you  need  it.  You 
could  have  had  it  long  ago!  " 

The  student  heaved  a  faint  sight  and  looked  with 
relief  at  his  mother.  Deliberately  Shiryaev  took  a 
pocket-book  out  of  his  coat-pocket  and  put  on  his 
spectacles. 

"  How  much  do  you  want?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  fare  to  Moscow  is  eleven  roubles  forty-two 
kopecks.  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  money,  money!"  sighed  the  father.  (He 
always  sighed  when  he  saw  money,  even  when  he 


Difficult  People  75 

was  receiving  it.)  "  Here  are  twelve  roubles  for 
you.  You  will  have  change  out  of  that  which  will 
be  of  use  to  you  on  the  journey." 

"  Thank  you." 

After  waiting  a  little,  the  student  said: 

"  I  did  not  get  lessons  quite  at  first  last  year.  I 
don't  know  how  it  will  be  this  year;  most  likely  it 
will  take  me  a  little  time  to  find  work.  I  ought 
to  ask  you  for  fifteen  roubles  for  my  lodging  and 
dinner." 

Shiryaev  thought  a  little  and  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  You  will  have  to  make  ten  do,"  he  said. 
"  Here,  take  it." 

The  student  thanked  him.  He  ought  to  have 
asked  him  for  something  more,  for  clothes,  for  lec- 
ture fees,  for  books,  but  after  an  intent  look  at  his 
father  he  decided  not  to  pester  him  further. 

The  mother,  lacking  in  diplomacy  and  prudence, 
like  all  mothers,  could  not  restrain  herself,  and  said: 

"  You  ought  to  give  him  another  six  roubles,  Yev- 
graf  Ivanovitch,  for  a  pair  of  boots.  Why,  just 
see,  how  can  he  go  to  Moscow  in  such  wrecks?  " 

"  Let  him  take  my  old  ones;  they  are  still  quite 
good." 

44  He  must  have  trousers,  anyway;  he  is  a  disgrace 
to  look  at." 

And  immediately  after  that  a  storm-signal  showed 
itself,  at  the  sight  of  which  all  the  family  trembled. 

Shiryaev's  short,  fat  neck  turned  suddenly  red  as 
a  beetroot.  The  colour  mounted  slowly  to  his  ears, 
from  his  ears  to  his  temples,  and  by  degrees  suffused 
his  whole  face.     Yevgraf  Ivanovitch  shifted  in  his 


76  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

chair  and  unbuttoned  his  shirt-collar  to  save  himself 
from  choking.  He  was  evidently  struggling  with 
the  feeling  that  was  mastering  him.  A  deathlike 
silence  followed.  The  children  held  their  breath. 
Fedosya  Semyonovna,  as  though  she  did  not  grasp 
what  was  happening  to  her  husband,  went  on: 

"He  is  not  a  little  boy  now,  you  know;  he  is 
ashamed  to  go  about  without  clothes." 

Shiryaev  suddenly  jumped  up,  and  with  all  his 
might  flung  down  his  fat  pocket-book  in  the  middle 
of  the  table,  so  that  a  hunk  of  bread  flew  off  a  plate. 
A  revolting  expression  of  anger,  resentment,  avarice 
—  all  mixed  together  —  flamed  on  his  face. 

"Take  everything!"  he  shouted  in  an  unnatural 
voice;  "  plunder  me!     Take  it  all!     Strangle  me!  " 

He  jumped  up  from  the  table,  clutched  at  his 
head,  and  ran  staggering  about  the  room. 

"Strip  me  to  the  last  thread!  "  he  shouted  in  a 
shrill  voice.  "Squeeze  out  the  last  drop!  Rob 
me !     Wring  my  neck !  " 

The  student  flushed  and  dropped  his  eyes.  He 
could  not  go  on  eating.  Fedosya  Semyonovna,  who 
had  not  after  twenty-five  years  grown  used  to  her 
husband's  difficult  character,  shrank  into  herself  and 
muttered  something  in  self-defence.  An  expression 
of  amazement  and  dull  terror  came  into  her  wasted 
and  birdlike  face,  which  at  all  times  looked  dull  and 
scared.  The  little  boys  and  the  elder  daughter  Var- 
vara,  a  girl  in  her  teens,  with  a  pale  ugly  face,  laid 
down  their  spoons  and  sat  mute. 

Shiryaev,  growing  more  and  more  ferocious,  ut- 
tering words  each  more  terrible  than  the  one  before, 


Difficult  People  77 

dashed  up  to  the  table  and  began  shaking  the  notes 
out  of  his  pocket-book. 

"  Take  them !  "  he  muttered,  shaking  all  over. 
"  You've  eaten  and  drunk  your  fill,  so  here's  money 
for  you  too  !  I  need  nothing!  Order  yourself  new 
boots  and  uniforms!  " 

The  student  turned  pale  and  got  up. 

"  Listen,  papa,"  he  began,  gasping  for  breath. 
"  I  ...  I  beg  you  to  end  this,  for  .   .   ." 

"  Hold  your  tongue !  "  the  father  shouted  at  him, 
and  so  loudly  that  the  spectacles  fell  off  his  nose; 
"  hold  your  tongue !  " 

"  I  used  ...  I  used  to  be  able  to  put  up  with 
such  scenes,  but  .  .  .  but  now  I  have  got  out  of  the 
way  of  it.  Do  you  understand?  I  have  got  out  of 
the  way  of  it!  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue !  "  cried  the  father,  and  he 
stamped  with  his  feet.  "  You  must  listen  to  what 
I  say!  I  shall  say  what  I  like,  and  you  hold  your 
tongue.  At  your  age  I  was  earning  my  living,  while 
you  .  .  .  Do  you  know  what  you  cost  me,  you 
scoundrel  ?     I'll  turn  you  out !     Wastrel !  " 

"  Yevgraf  Ivanovitch,"  muttered  Fedosya  Sem- 
yonovna,  moving  her  fingers  nervously;  "you  know 
he  .   .   .  you  know  Petya  ...    !  " 

"Hold  your  tongue!"  Shiryaev  shouted  out  to 
her,  and  tears  actually  came  into  his  eyes  from  anger. 
"  It  is  you  who  have  spoilt  them  —  you !  It's  all 
your  fault!  He  has  no  respect  for  us,  does  not  say 
his  prayers,  and  earns  nothing!  I  am  only  one 
against  the  ten  of  you!  I'll  turn  you  out  of  the 
house !  " 


78  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

The  daughter  Varvara  gazed  fixedly  at  her  mother 
with  her  mouth  open,  moved  her  vacant-looking  eyes 
to  the  window,  turned  pale,  and,  uttering  a  loud 
shriek,  fell  back  in  her  chair.  The  father,  with  a 
curse  and  a  wave  of  the  hand,  ran  out  into  the 
yard. 

This  was  how  domestic  scenes  usually  ended  at  the 
Shiryaevs'.  But  on  this  occasion,  unfortunately, 
Pyotr  the  student  was  carried  away  by  overmastering 
anger.  He  was  just  as  hasty  and  ill-tempered  as  his 
father  and  his  grandfather  the  priest,  who  used  to 
beat  his  parishioners  about  the  head  with  a  stick. 
Pale  and  clenching  his  fists,  he  went  up  to  his  mother 
and  shouted  in  the  very  highest  tenor  note  his  voice 
could  reach: 

"These  reproaches  are  loathsome!  sickening  to 
me!  I  want  nothing  from  you!  Nothing!  I 
would  rather  die  of  hunger  than  eat  another  mouth- 
ful at  your  expense  !  Take  your  nasty  money  back ! 
take  it!" 

The  mother  huddled  against  the  wall  and  waved 
her  hands,  as  though  it  were  not  her  son,  but  some 
phantom  before  her. 

"  What  have  I  done?  "  she  wailed.     "  What?  " 

Like  his  father,  the  boy  waved  his  hands  and  ran 
into  the  yard.  Shiryaev's  house  stood  alone  on  a 
ravine  which  ran  like  a  furrow  for  four  miles  along 
the  steppe.  Its  sides  were  overgrown  with  oak  sap- 
lings and  alders,  and  a  stream  ran  at  the  bottom. 
On  one  side  the  house  looked  towards  the  ravine,  on 
the  other  towards  the  open  country,  there  were  no 
fences  nor  hurdles.     Instead  there  were  farm-build- 


Difficult  People  79 

ings  of  all  sorts  close  to  one  another,  shutting  in  a 
small  space  in  front  of  the  house  which  was  regarded 
as  the  yard,  and  in  which  hens,  ducks,  and  pigs  ran 
about. 

Going  out  of  the  house,  the  student  walked  along 
the  muddy  road  towards  the  open  country.  The  air 
was  full  of  a  penetrating  autumn  dampness.  The 
road  was  muddy,  puddles  gleamed  here  and  there, 
and  in  the  yellow  fields  autumn  itself  seemed  looking 
out  from  the  grass,  dismal,  decaying,  dark.  On  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  road  was  a  vegetable-garden 
cleared  of  its  crops  and  gloomy-looking,  with  here 
and  there  sunflowers  standing  up  in  it  with  hanging 
heads  already  black. 

Pyotr  thought  it  would  not  be  a  bad  thing  to  walk 
to  Moscow  on  foot;  to  walk  just  as  he  was,  with 
holes  in  his  boots,  without  a  cap,  and  without  a 
farthing  of  money.  When  he  had  gone  eighty  miles 
his  father,  frightened  and  aghast,  would  overtake 
him,  would  begin  begging  him  to  turn  back  or  take 
the  money,  but  he  would  not  even  look  at  him,  but 
would  go  on  and  on.  .  .  .  Bare  forests  would  be 
followed  by  desolate  fields,  fields  by  forests  again; 
soon  the  earth  would  be  white  with  the  first  snow, 
and  the  streams  would  be  coated  with  ice.  .  .  . 
Somewhere  near  Kursk  or  near  Serpuhovo,  ex- 
hausted and  dying  of  hunger,  he  would  sink  down 
and  die.  His  corpse  would  be  found,  and  there 
would  be  a  paragraph  in  all  the  papers  saying  that 
a  student  called  Shiryaev  had  died  of  hunger.  .  .  . 

A  white  dog  with  a  muddy  tail  who  was  wander- 
ing about  the  vegetable-garden  looking  for  some- 


80  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

thing  gazed  at  him  and  sauntered  after  him.   .  .  . 

He  walked  along  the  road  and  thought  of  death, 
of  the  grief  of  his  family,  of  the  moral  sufferings  of 
his  father,  and  then  pictured  all  sorts  of  adventures 
'on  the  road,  each  more  marvellous  than  the  one  be- 
fore —  picturesque  places,  terrible  nights,  chance  en- 
counters. He  imagined  a  string  of  pilgrims,  a  hut 
in  the  forest  with  one  little  window  shining  in  the 
darkness;  he  stands  before  the  window,  begs  for  a 
night's  lodging.  .  .  .  They  let  him  in,  and  suddenly 
he  sees  that  they  are  robbers.  Or,  better  still,  he  is 
taken  into  a  big  manor-house,  where,  learning  who 
he  is,  they  give  him  food  and  drink,  play  to  him  on 
the  piano,  listen  to  his  complaints,  and  the  daughter 
of  the  house,  a  beauty,  falls  in  love  with  him. 

Absorbed  in  his  bitterness  and  such  thoughts, 
young  Shiryaev  walked  on  and  on.  Far,  far  ahead 
he  saw  the  inn,  a  dark  patch  against  the  grey  back- 
ground of  cloud.  Beyond  the  inn,  on  the  very 
horizon,  he  could  see  a  little  hillock;  this  was  the 
railway-station.  That  hillock  reminded  him  of  the 
connection  existing  between  the  place  where  he  was 
now  standing  and  Moscow,  where  street-lamps  were 
burning  and  carriages  were  rattling  in  the  streets, 
where  lectures  were  being  given.  And  he  almost 
wept  with  depression  and  impatience.  The  solemn 
landscape,  with  its  order  and  beauty,  the  deathlike 
stillness  all  around,  revolted  him  and  moved  him  to 
despair  and  hatred ! 

"Look  out!"  He  heard  behind  him  a  loud 
voice. 

An  old  lady  of  his  acquaintance,  a  landowner  of 


Difficult  People  81 

the  neighbourhood,  drove  past  him  in  a  light,  ele- 
gant landau.  He  bowed  to  her,  and  smiled  all  over 
his  face.  And  at  once  he  caught  himself  in  that 
smile,  which  was  so  out  of  keeping  with  his  gloomy 
mood.  Where  did  it  come  from  if  his  whole  heart 
was  full  of  vexation  and  misery?  And  he  thought 
nature  itself  had  given  man  this  capacity  for  lying, 
that  even  in  difficult  moments  of  spiritual  strain  he 
might  be  able  to  hide  the  secrets  of  his  nest  as  the 
fox  and  the  wild  duck  do.  Every  family  has  its  joys 
and  its  horrors,  but  however  great  they  may  be,  it's 
hard  for  an  outsider's  eye  to  see  them;  they  are  a 
secret.  The  father  of  the  old  lady  who  had  just 
driven  by,  for  instance,  had  for  some  offence  lain 
for  half  his  lifetime  under  the  ban  of  the  wrath  of 
Tsar  Nicolas  I.;  her  husband  had  been  a  gambler; 
of  her  four  sons,  not  one  had  turned  out  well.  One 
could  imagine  how  many  terrible  scenes  there  must 
have  been  in  her  life,  how  many  tears  must  have  been 
shed.  And  yet  the  old  lady  seemed  happy  and  satis- 
fied, and  she  had  answered  his  smile  by  smiling  too. 
The  student  thought  of  his  comrades,  who  did  not 
like  talking  about  their  families;  he  thought  of  his 
mother,  who  almost  always  lied  when  she  had  to 
speak  of  her  husband  and  children.   .   .   . 

Pyotr  walked  about  the  roads  far  from  home  till 
dusk,  abandoning  himself  to  dreary  thoughts. 
When  it  began  to  drizzle  with  rain  he  turned  home- 
wards. As  he  walked  back  he  made  up  his  mind  at 
all  costs  to  talk  to  his  father,  to  explain  to  him,  once 
and  for  all,  that  it  was  dreadful  and  oppressive  to 
live  with  him. 


82  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

He  found  perfect  stillness  in  the  house.  His 
sister  Varvara  was  lying  behind  a  screen  with  a  head- 
ache, moaning  faintly.  His  mother,  with  a  look  of 
amazement  and  guilt  upon  her  face,  was  sitting  be- 
side her  on  a  box,  mending  Arhipka's  trousers. 
Yevgraf  Ivanovitch  was  pacing  from  one  window  to 
another,  scowling  at  the  weather.  From  his  walk, 
from  the  way  he  cleared  his  throat,  and  even  from 
the  back  of  his  head,  it  was  evident  he  felt  himself  to 
blame. 

11  I  suppose  you  have  changed  your  mind  about 
going  today?  "  he  asked. 

The  student  felt  sorry  for  him,  but  immediately 
suppressing  that  feeling,  he  said: 

"  Listen  ...  I  must  speak  to  you  seriously  .  .  . 
yes,  seriously.  I  have  always  respected  you,  and 
.  .  .  and  have  never  brought  myself  to  speak  to  you 
in  such  a  tone,  but  your  behaviour  .  .  .  your  last 
action   .   .   ." 

The  father  looked  out  of  the  window  and  did 
not  speak.  The  student,  as  though  considering  his 
words,  rubbed  his  forehead  and  went  on  in  great  ex- 
citement: 

11  Not  a  dinner  or  tea  passes  without  your  making 
an  uproar.  Your  bread  sticks  in  our  throat  .  .  . 
nothing  is  more  bitter,  more  humiliating,  than  bread 
that  sticks  in  one's  throat.  .  .  .  Though  you  are  my 
father,  no  one,  neither  God  nor  nature,  has  given 
you  the  right  to  insult  and  humiliate  us  so  horribly, 
to  vent  your  ill-humour  on  the  weak.  You  have 
worn  my  mother  out  and  made  a  slave  of  her,  my 
sister  is  hopelessly  crushed,  while  I  .  .  ." 


Difficult  People  83 

"  It's  not  your  business  to  teach  me,"  said  his 
father. 

"Yes,  it  is  my  business!  You  can  quarrel  with 
me  as  much  as  you  like,  but  leave  my  mother  in 
peace !  I  will  not  allow  you  to  torment  my 
mother!"  the  student  went  on,  with  flashing  eyes. 
11  You  are  spoilt  because  no  one  has  yet  dared  to 
oppose  you.  They  tremble  and  are  mute  towards 
you,  but  now  that  is  over!  Coarse,  ill-bred  manl 
You  are  coarse  ...  do  you  understand?  You  are 
coarse,  ill-humoured,  unfeeling.  And  the  peasants 
can't  endure  you!  " 

The  student  had  by  now  lost  his  thread,  and  was 
not  so  much  speaking  as  firing  off  detached  words. 
Yevgraf  Ivanovitch  listened  in  silence,  as  though 
stunned;  but  suddenly  his  neck  turned  crimson,  the 
colour  crept  up  his  face,  and  he  made  a  movement. 

"  Hold  your  tongue!  "  he  shouted. 

"That's  right!"  the  son  persisted;  "you  don't 
like  to  hear  the  truth!  Excellent!  Very  good! 
begin  shouting!     Excellent!" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  I  tell  you !  "  roared  Yevgraf 
Ivanovitch. 

Fedosya  Semyonovna  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
very  pale,  with  an  astonished  face;  she  tried  to  say 
something,  but  she  could  not,  and  could  only  move 
her  fingers. 

"It's  all  your  fault!"  Shiryaev  shouted  at  her. 
"  You  have  brought  him  up  like  this!  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  on  living  in  this  house !" 
shouted  the  student,  crying,  and  looking  angrily  at 
his  mother.     "  I  don't  want  to  live  with  you !  " 


84  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Varvara  uttered  a  shriek  behind  the  screen  and 
broke  into  loud  sobs.  With  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
Shiryaev  ran  out  of  the  house. 

The  student  went  to  his  own  room  and  quietly  lay 
down.  He  lay  till  midnight  without  moving  or 
opening  his  eyes.  He  felt  neither  anger  nor  shame, 
but  a  vague  ache  in  his  soul.  He  neither  blamed  his 
father  nor  pitied  his  mother,  nor  was  he  tormented 
by  stings  of  conscience;  he  realized  that  every  one 
in  the  house  was  feeling  the  same  ache,  and  God  only 
knew  which  was  most  to  blame,  which  was  suffering 
most.   .   .   . 

At  midnight  he  woke  the  labourer,  and  told  him  to 
have  the  horse  ready  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning 
for  him  to  drive  to  the  station;  he  undressed  and  got 
into  bed,  but  could  not  get  to  sleep.  He  heard  how 
his  father,  still  awake,  paced  slowly  from  window  to 
window,  sighing,  till  early  morning.  No  one  was 
asleep;  they  spoke  rarely,  and  only  in  whispers. 
Twice  his  mother  came  to  him  behind  the  screen. 
Always  with  the  same  look  of  vacant  wonder,  she 
slowly  made  the  cross  over  him,  shaking  nervously. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  said  good-bye  to 
them  all  affectionately,  and  even  shed  tears.  As  he 
passed  his  father's  room,  he  glanced  in  at  the  door. 
Yevgraf  Ivanovitch,  who  had  not  taken  off  his 
clothes  or  gone  to  bed,  was  standing  by  the  window, 
drumming  on  the  panes. 

11  Good-bye;  I  am  going,"  said  his  son. 

"  Good-bye  .  .  .  the  money  is  on  the  round  table 
.  .  ."  his  father  answered,  without  turning  round. 


Difficult  People  85 

A  cold,  hateful  rain  was  falling  as  the  labourer 
drove  him  to  the  station.  The  sunflowers  were 
drooping  their  heads  still  lower,  and  the  grass 
seemed  darker  than  ever. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER 


THE  GRASSHOPPER 


All  Olga  Ivanovna's  friends  and  acquaintances  were 
at  her  wedding. 

"  Look  at  him;  isn't  it  true  that  there  is  something 
in  him?  "  she  said  to  her  friends,  with  a  nod  towards 
her  husband,  as  though  she  wanted  to  explain  why 
she  was  marrying  a  simple,  very  ordinary,  and  in  no 
way  remarkable  man. 

Her  husband,  Osip  Stepanitch  Dymov,  was  a  doc- 
tor, and  only  of  the  rank  of  a  titular  councillor.  He 
was  on  the  staff  of  two  hospitals:  in  one  a  ward- 
surgeon  and  in  the  other  a  dissecting  demonstrator. 
Every  day  from  nine  to  twelve  he  saw  patients  and 
was  busy  in  his  ward,  and  after  twelve  o'clock  he 
went  by  tram  to  the  other  hospital,  where  he  dis- 
sected. His  private  practice  was  a  small  one,  not 
worth  more  than  five  hundred  roubles  a  year.  That 
was  all.  What  more  could  one  say  about  him? 
Meanwhile,  Olga  Ivanovna  and  her  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances were  not  quite  ordinary  people.  Every 
one  of  them  was  remarkable  in  some  way,  and  more 
or  less  famous;  already  had  made  a  reputation  and 
was  looked  upon  as  a  celebrity;  or  if  not  yet  a  celeb- 
rity, gave  brilliant  promise  of  becoming  one.  There 
was  an  actor  from  the  Dramatic  Theatre,  who  was  a 

89 


90  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

great  talent  of  established  reputation,  as  well  as  an 
elegant,  intelligent,  and  modest  man,  and  a  capital 
elocutionist,  and  who  taught  Olga  Ivanovna  to  re- 
cite; there  was  a  singer  from  the  opera,  a  good-na- 
tured, fat  man  who  assured  Olga  Ivanovna,  with  a 
sigh,  that  she  was  ruining  herself,  that  if  she  would 
take  herself  in  hand  and  not  be  lazy  she  might  make 
a  remarkable  singer;  then  there  were  several  artists, 
and  chief  among  them  Ryabovsky,  a  very  handsome, 
fair  young  man  of  five-and-twenty  who  painted  genre 
pieces,  animal  studies,  and  landscapes,  was  success- 
ful at  exhibitions,  and  had  sold  his  last  picture  for 
five  hundred  roubles.  He  touched  up  Olga  Ivan- 
ovna's  sketches,  and  used  to  say  she  might  do  some- 
thing. Then  a  violoncellist,  whose  instrument  used 
to  sob,  and  who  openly  declared  that  of  all  the  ladies 
of  his  acquaintance  the  only  one  who  could  accom- 
pany him  was  Olga  Ivanovna;  then  there  was  a 
literary  man,  young  but  already  well  known,  who 
had  written  stories,  novels,  and  plays.  Who  else? 
Why,  Vassily  Vassilyitch,  a  landowner  and  amateur 
illustrator  and  vignettist,  with  a  great  feeling  for 
the  old  Russian  style,  the  old  ballad  and  epic.  On 
paper,  on  china,  and  on  smoked  plates,  he  produced 
literally  marvels.  In  the  midst  of  this  free  artistic 
company,  spoiled  by  fortune,  though  refined  and 
modest,  who  recalled  the  existence  of  doctors  only 
in  times  of  illness,  and  to  whom  the  name  of  Dymov 
sounded  in  no  way  different  from  Sidorov  or  Tar- 
asov  —  in  the  midst  of  this  company  Dymov  seemed 
strange,  not  wanted,  and  small,  though  he  was  tall 
and   broad-shouldered.     He   looked   as   though   he 


The  Grasshopper  91 

had  on  somebody  else's  coat,  and  his  beard  was  like 
a  shopman's.  Though  if  he  had  been  a  writer  or  an 
artist,  they  would  have  said  that  his  beard  reminded 
them  of  Zola. 

An  artist  said  to  Olga  Tvanovna  that  with  her 
flaxen  hair  and  in  her  wedding-dress  she  was  very 
much  like  a  graceful  cherry-tree  when  it  is  covered 
all  over  with  delicate  white  blossoms  in  spring. 

"  Oh,  let  me  tell  you,"  said  Olga  Ivanovna,  taking 
his  arm,  "  how  it  was  it  all  came  to  pass  so  suddenly. 
Listen,  listen!  ...  I  must  tell  you  that  my  father 
was  on  the  same  staff  at  the  hospital  as  Dymov. 
When  my  poor  father  was  taken  ill,  Dymov  watched 
for  days  and  nights  together  at  his  bedside. 
Such  self-sacrifice!  Listen,  Ryabovsky!  You,  my 
writer,  listen;  it  is  very  interesting!  Come  nearer. 
Such  self-sacrifice,  such  genuine  sympathy!  I  sat  up 
with  my  father,  and  did  not  sleep  for  nights,  either. 
And  all  at  once  —  the  princess  had  won  the  hero's 
heart  —  my  Dymov  fell  head  over  ears  in  love. 
Really,  fate  is  so  strange  at  times!  Well,  after  my 
father's  death  he  came  to  see  me  sometimes,  met  me 
in  the  street,  and  one  fine  evening,  all  at  once  he 
made  me  an  offer  .  .  .  like  snow  upon  my  head. 
...  I  lay  awake  all  night,  crying,  and  fell  hellishly 
in  love  myself.  And  here,  as  you  see,  I  am  his  wife. 
There  really  is  something  strong,  powerful,  bearlike 
about  him,  isn't  there?  Now  his  face  is  turned 
three-quarters  towards  us  in  a  bad  light,  but  when  he 
turns  round  look  at  his  forehead.  Ryabovsky,  what 
do  you  say  to  that  forehead?  Dymov,  we  are  talk- 
ing about  you !  "  she  called  to  her  husband.     "  Come 


92  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

here;  hold  out  your  honest  hand  to  Ryabovsky.  .  .  . 
That's  right,  be  friends." 

Dymov,  with  a  naive  and  good-natured  smile,  held 
out  his  hand  to  Ryabovsky,  and  said: 

"  Very  glad  to  meet  you.  There  was  a  Ryabov- 
sky in  my  year  at  the  medical  school.  Was  he  a 
relation  of  yours?  " 

II 

Olga  Ivanovna  was  twenty-two,  Dymov  was 
thirty-one.  They  got  on  splendidly  together  when 
they  were  married.  Olga  Ivanovna  hung  all  her 
drawing-room  walls  with  her  own  and  other  people's 
sketches,  in  frames  and  without  frames,  and  near  the 
piano  and  furniture  arranged  picturesque  corners 
with  Japanese  parasols,  easels,  daggers,  busts,  photo- 
graphs, and  rags  of  many  colours.  ...  In  the  din- 
ing-room she  papered  the  walls  with  peasant  wood- 
cuts, hung  up  bark  shoes  and  sickles,  stood  in  a  cor- 
ner a  scythe  and  a  rake,  and  so  achieved  a  dining- 
room  in  the  Russian  style.  In  her  bedroom  she 
draped  the  ceiling  and  the  walls  with  dark  cloths  to 
make  it  like  a  cavern,  hung  a  Venetian  lantern  over 
the  beds,  and  at  the  door  set  a  figure  with  a  halberd. 
And  every  one  thought  that  the  young  people  had  a 
very  charming  little  home. 

When  she  got  up  at  eleven  o'clock  every  morning, 
Olga  Ivanovna  played  the  piano  or,  if  it  were  sunny, 
painted  something  in  oils.  Then  between  twelve  and 
one  she  drove  to  her  dressmaker's.  As  Dymov  and 
she  had  very  little  money,  only  just  enough,  she  and 


The  Grasshopper  93 

her  dressmaker  were  often  put  to  clever  shifts  to 
enable  her  to  appear  constantly  in  new  dresses  and 
make  a  sensation  with  them.  Very  often  out  of  an 
old  dyed  dress,  out  of  bits  of  tulle,  lace,  plush,  and 
silk,  costing  nothing,  perfect  marvels  were  created, 
something  bewitching  —  not  a  dress,  but  a  dream. 
From  the  dressmaker's  Olga  Ivanovna  usually  drove 
to  some  actress  of  her  acquaintance  to  hear  the  latest 
theatrical  gossip,  and  incidentally  to  try  and  get  hold 
of  tickets  for  the  first  night  of  some  new  play  or  for 
a  benefit  performance.  From  the  actress's  she  had 
to  go  to  some  artist's  studio  or  to  some  exhibition  or 
to  see  some  celebrity  —  either  to  pay  a  visit  or  to 
give  an  invitation  or  simply  to  have  a  chat.  And 
everywhere  she  met  with  a  gay  and  friendly  wel- 
come, and  was  assured  that  she  was  good,  that  she 
was  sweet,  that  she  was  rare.  .  .  .  Those  whom  she 
called  great  and  famous  received  her  as  one  of 
themselves,  as  an  equal,  and  predicted  with  one 
voice  that,  with  her  talents,  her  taste,  and  her  intel- 
ligence, she  would  do  great  things  if  she  concentrated 
herself.  She  sang,  she  played  the  piano,  she  painted 
in  oils,  she  carved,  she  took  part  in  amateur  per- 
formances; and  all  this  not  just  anyhow,  but  all  with 
talent,  whether  she  made  lanterns  for  an  illumination 
or  dressed  up  or  tied  somebody's  cravat  —  every- 
thing she  did  was  exceptionally  graceful,  artistic,  and 
charming.  But  her  talents  showed  themselves  in 
nothing  so  clearly  as  in  her  faculty  for  quickly  be- 
coming acquainted  and  on  intimate  terms  with  cele- 
brated people.  No  sooner  did  any  one  become  ever 
so  little  celebrated,  and  set  people  talking  about  him, 


94  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

than  she  made  his  acquaintance,  got  on  friendly 
terms  the  same  day,  and  invited  him  to  her  house. 
Every  new  acquaintance  she  made  was  a  veritable 
fete  for  her.  She  adored  celebrated  people,  was 
proud  of  them,  dreamed  of  them  every  night.  She 
craved  for  them,  and  never  could  satisfy  her  crav- 
ing. The  old  ones  departed  and  were  forgotten, 
new  ones  came  to  replace  them,  but  to  these,  too,  she 
soon  grew  accustomed  or  was  disappointed  in  them, 
and  began  eagerly  seeking  for  fresh  great  men,  find- 
ing them  and  seeking  for  them  again.     What  for? 

Between  four  and  five  she  dined  at  home  with  her 
husband.  His  simplicity,  good  sense,  and  kind- 
heartedness  touched  her  and  moved  her  up  to  en- 
thusiasm. She  was  constantly  jumping  up,  im- 
pulsively hugging  his  head  and  showering  kisses 
on  it. 

"  You  are  a  clever,  generous  man,  Dymov,"  she 
used  to  say,  "  but  you  have  one  very  serious  defect. 
You  take  absolutely  no  interest  in  art.  You  don't 
believe  in  music  or  painting." 

"  I  don't  understand  them,"  he  would  say  mildly. 
"  I  have  spent  all  my  life  in  working  at  natural 
science  and  medicine,  and  I  have  never  had  time  to 
take  an  interest  in  the  arts." 

"  But,  you  know,  that's  awful,  Dymov!  " 

"  Why  so?  Your  friends  don't  know  anything  of 
science  or  medicine,  but  you  don't  reproach  them 
with  it.  Every  one  has  his  own  line.  I  don't  un- 
derstand landscapes  and  operas,  but  the  way  I  look 
at  it  is  that  if  one  set  of  sensible  people  devote  their 
whole  lives  to  them,  and  other  sensible  people  pay 


The  Grasshopper  95 

immense  sums  for  them,  they  must  be  of  use.  I 
don't  understand  them,  but  not  understanding  does 
not  imply  disbelieving  in  them." 

"  Let  me  shake  your  honest  hand!  " 

After  dinner  Olga  Ivanovna  would  drive  off  to 
see  her  friends,  then  to  a  theatre  or  to  a  concert, 
and  she  returned  home  after  midnight.  So  it  was 
every  day. 

On  Wednesdays  she  had  "  At  Homes."  At  these 
"  At  Homes  "  the  hostess  and  her  guests  did  not  play 
cards  and  did  not  dance,  but  entertained  themselves 
with  various  arts.  An  actor  from  the  Dramatic 
Theatre  recited,  a  singer  sang,  artists  sketched  in  the 
albums  of  which  Olga  Ivanovna  had  a  great  number, 
the  violoncellist  played,  and  the  hostess  herself 
sketched,  carved,  sang,  and  played  accompaniments. 
In  the  intervals  between  the  recitations,  music,  and 
singing,  they  talked  and  argued  about  literature,  the 
theatre,  and  painting.  There  were  no  ladies,  for 
Olga  Ivanovna  considered  all  ladies  wearisome  and 
vulgar  except  actresses  and  her  dressmaker.  Not 
one  of  these  entertainments  passed  without  the  hos- 
tess starting  at  every  ring  at  the  bell,  and  saying, 
with  a  triumphant  expression,  "  It  is  he,"  meaning 
by  "  he,"  of  course,  some  new  celebrity.  Dymov 
was  not  in  the  drawing-room,  and  no  one  remem- 
bered his  existence.  But  exactly  at  half-past  eleven 
the  door  leading  into  the  dining-room  opened,  and 
Dymov  would  appear  with  his  good-natured,  gentle 
smile  and  say,  rubbing  his  hands : 

"  Come  to  supper,  gentlemen." 

They  all  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  every 


96 


The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


time  found  on  the  table  exactly  the  same  things:  a 
dish  of  oysters,  a  piece  of  ham  or  veal,  sardines, 
cheese,  caviare,  mushrooms,  vodka,  and  two  de- 
canters of  wine. 

"  My  dear  mditre  d'  hotel! "  Olga  Ivanovna 
would  say,  clasping  her  hands  with  enthusiasm,  "  you 
are  simply  fascinating!  My  friends,  look  at  his 
forehead!  Dymov,  turn  your  profile.  Look!  he 
has  the  face  of  a  Bengal  tiger  and  an  expression  as 
kind  and  sweet  as  a  gazelle.     Ah,  the  darling!  " 

The  visitors  ate,  and,  looking  at  Dymov,  thought, 
"  He  really  is  a  nice  fellow  " ;  but  they  soon  forgot 
about  him,  and  went  on  talking  about  the  theatre, 
music,  and  painting. 

The  young  people  were  happy,  and  their  life 
flowed  on  without  a  hitch. 

The  third  week  of  their  honeymoon  was  spent, 
however,  not  quite  happily  —  sadly,  indeed.  Dy- 
mov caught  erysipelas  in  the  hospital,  was  in  bed 
for  six  days,  and  had  to  have  his  beautiful  black 
hair  cropped.  Olga  Ivanovna  sat  beside  him  and 
wept  bitterly,  but  when  he  was  better  she  put  a  white 
handkerchief  on  his  shaven  head  and  began  to  paint 
him  as  a  Bedouin.  And  they  were  both  in  good 
spirits.  Three  days  after  he  had  begun  to  go  back 
to  the  hospital  he  had  another  mischance. 

"  I  have  no  luck,  little  mother,"  he  said  one  day 
at  dinner.  "  I  had  four  dissections  to  do  today,  and 
I  cut  two  of  my  fingers  at  one.  And  I  did  not  notice 
it  till  I  got  home." 

Olga   Ivanovna   was   alarmed.     He   smiled,   and 


The  Grasshopper  97 

told  her  that  it  did  not  matter,  and  that  he  often 
cut  his  hands  when  he  was  dissecting. 

"  I  get  absorbed,  little  mother,  and  grow  care- 
less." 

Olga  Ivanovna  dreaded  symptoms  of  blood- 
poisoning,  and  prayed  about  it  every  night,  but  all 
went  well.  And  again  life  flowed  on  peaceful  and 
happy,  free  from  grief  and  anxiety.  The  present 
was  happy,  and  to  follow  it  spring  was  at  hand,  al- 
ready smiling  in  the  distance,  and  promising  a  thou- 
sand delights.  There  would  be  no  end  to  their  hap- 
piness. In  April,  May  and  June  a  summer  villa  a 
good  distance  out  of  town;  walks,  sketching,  fishing, 
nightingales;  and  then  from  July  right  on  to  autumn 
an  artist's  tour  on  the  Volga,  and  in  this  tour  Olga 
Ivanovna  would  take  part  as  an  indispensable  mem- 
ber of  the  society.  She  had  already  had  made  for 
her  two  travelling  dresses  of  linen,  had  bought 
paints,  brushes,  canvases,  and  a  new  palette  for  the 
journey.  Almost  every  day  Ryabovsky  visited  her 
to  see  what  progress  she  was  making  in  her  painting; 
when  she  showed  him  her  painting,  he  used  to  thrust 
his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets,  compress  his  lips, 
sniff,  and  say: 

"  Ye — es  .  .  .  !  That  cloud  of  yours  is  scream- 
ing: it's  not  in  the  evening  light.  The  foreground 
is  somehow  chewed  up,  and  there  is  something,  you 
know,  not  the  thing.  .  .  .  And  your  cottage  is 
weighed  down  and  whines  pitifully.  That  corner 
ought  to  have  been  taken  more  in  shadow,  but  on  the 
whole  it  is  not  bad;  I  like  it." 


98  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

And  the  more  incomprehensible  he  talked,  the 
more  readily  Olga  Ivanovna  understood  him. 

Ill 

After  dinner  on  the  second  day  of  Trinity  week, 
Dymov  bought  some  sweets  and  some  savouries'  and 
went  down  to  the  villa  to  see  his  wife.  He  had  not 
seen  her  for  a  fortnight,  and  missed  her  terribly. 
As  he  sat  in  the  train  and  afterwards  as  he  looked 
for  his  villa  in  a  big  wood,  he  felt  all  the  while 
hungry  and  weary,  and  dreamed  of  how  he  would 
have  supper  in  freedom  with  his  wife,  then  tumble 
into  bed  and  to  sleep.  And  he  was  delighted  as  he 
looked  at  his  parcel,  in  which  there  was  caviare, 
cheese,  and  white  salmon. 

The  sun  was  setting  by  the  time  he  found  his  villa 
and  recognized  it.  The  old  servant  told  him  that 
her  mistress  was  not  at  home,  but  that  most  likely 
she  would  soon  be  in.  The  villa,  very  uninviting  in 
appearance,  with  low  ceilings  papered  with  writing- 
paper  and  with  uneven  floors  full  of  crevices,  con- 
sisted only  of  three  rooms.  In  one  there  was  a  bed, 
in  the  second  there  were  canvases,  brushes,  greasy 
papers,  and  men's  overcoats  and  hats  lying  about  on 
the  chairs  and  in  the  windows,  while  in  the  third 
Dymov  found  three  unknown  men;  two  were  dark- 
haired  and  had  beards,  the  other  was  clean-shaven 
and  fat,  apparently  an  actor.  There  was  a  samovar 
boiling  on  the  table. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  asked  the  actor  in  a  bass 
voice,  looking  at  Dymov  ungraciously.     "  Do  you 


The  Grasshopper  99 

want  Olga  Ivanovna?  Wait  a  minute;  she  will  be 
here  directly." 

Dymov  sat  down  and  waited.  One  of  the  dark- 
haired  men,  looking  sleepily  and  listlessly  at  him, 
poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  tea,  and  asked: 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  some  tea?" 

Dymov  was  both  hungry  and  thirsty,  but  he  re- 
fused tea  for  fear  of  spoiling  his  supper.  Soon  he 
heard  footsteps  and  a  familiar  laugh;  a  door 
slammed,  and  Olga  Ivanovna  ran  into  the  room, 
wearing  a  wide-brimmed  hat  and  carrying  a  box  in 
her  hand;  she  was  followed  by  Ryabovsky,  rosy  and 
good-humoured,  carrying  a  big  umbrella  and  a  camp- 
stool. 

"  Dymov!  "  cried  Olga  Ivanovna,  and  she  flushed 
crimson  with  pleasure.  "Dymov!"  she  repeated, 
laying  her  head  and  both  arms  on  his  bosom.  "  Is 
that  you?  Why  haven't  you  come  for  so  long? 
Why?     Why?" 

"  When  could  I,  little  mother?  I  am  always  busy, 
and  whenever  I  am  free  it  always  happens  somehow 
that  the  train  does  not  fit." 

"  But  how  glad  I  am  to  see  vou!  I  have  been 
dreaming  about  vou  the  whole  ni^ht,  the  whole  night, 
and  I  was  afraid  you  must  be  ill.  Ah!  if  you  only 
knew  how  sweet  you  are !  You  have  come  in  the 
nick  of  time  !  You  will  be  my  salvation  !  You  are 
the  only  person  who  can  save  me!  There  is  to  be 
a  most  original  wedding  here  tomorrow,"  she  went 
on,  laughing,  and  tying  her  husband's  cravat.  "  A 
young  telegraph  clerk  at  the  station,  called  Tchikeld- 
yeev,  is  going  to  be  married.     He  is  a  handsome 


ioo  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

young  man  and  —  well,  not  stupid,  and  you  know 
there  is  something  strong,  bearlike  in  his  face  .  .  . 
you  might  paint  him  as  a  young  Norman.  We  sum- 
mer vistors  take  a  great  interest  in  him,  and  have 
promised  to  be  at  his  wedding.  .  .  .  He  is  a  lonely, 
timid  man,  not  well  off,  and  of  course  it  would  be  a 
shame  not  to  be  sympathetic  to  him.  Fancy!  the 
wedding  will  be  after  the  service;  then  we  shall  all 
walk  from  the  church  to  the  bride's  lodgings  .  .  . 
you  see  the  wood,  the  birds  singing,  patches  of  sun- 
light on  the  grass,  and  all  of  us  spots  of  different 
colours  against  the  bright  green  background  —  very 
original,  in  the  style  of  the  French  impressionists. 
But,  Dymov,  what  am  I  to  go  to  the  church  in?" 
said  Olga  Ivanovna,  and  she  looked  as  though  she 
were  going  to  cry.  "  I  have  nothing  here,  literally 
nothing!  no  dress,  no  flowers,  no  gloves  .  .  .  you 
must  save  me.  Since  you  have  come,  fate  itself  bids 
you  save  me.  Take  the  keys,  my  precious,  go  home 
and  get  my  pink  dress  from  the  wardrobe.  You  re- 
member it;  it  hangs  in  front.  .  .  .  Then,  in  the 
storeroom,  on  the  floor,  on  the  right  side,  you  will 
see  two  cardboard  boxes.  When  you  open  the  top 
one  you  will  see  tulle,  heaps  of  tulle  and  rags  of  all 
sorts,  and  under  them  flowers.  Take  out  all  the 
flowers  carefully,  try  not  to  crush  them,  darling;  I 
will  choose  among  them  later.  .  .  .  And  buy  me 
some  gloves." 

"Very  well,"  said  Dvmov;  "  I  will  go  tomorrow 
and  send  them  to  you." 

"  Tomorrow?  "  asked  Olga  Ivanovna,  and  she 
looked  at  him  surprised.      "  You  won't  have  time  to- 


The  Grasshopper  10 1 

morrow.  The  first  train  goes  tomorrow  at  nine,  and 
the  wedding's  at  eleven.  No,  darling,  it  must  be 
today;  it  absolutely  must  be  today.  If  you  won't  be 
able  to  come  tomorrow,  send  them  by  a  messenger. 
Come,  you  must  run  along.  .  .  .  The  passenger 
train  will  be  in  directly;  don't  miss  it,  darling." 

"  Very  well." 

"  Oh,  how  sorry  I  am  to  let  you  go !  "  said  Olga 
Ivanovna,  and  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "  And 
why  did  I  promise  that  telegraph  clerk,  like  a  silly?  " 

Dymov  hurriedly  drank  a  glass  of  tea,  took  a 
cracknel,  and,  smiling  gently,  went  to  the  station. 
And  the  caviare,  the  cheese,  and  the  white  salmon 
were  eaten  by  the  two  dark  gentlemen  and  the  fat 
actor. 

IV 

On  a  still  moonlight  night  in  July  Olga  Ivanovna 
was  standing  on  the  deck  of  a  Volga  steamer  and 
looking  alternately  at  the  water  and  at  the  pictur- 
esque banks.  Beside  her  was  standing  Ryabovsky, 
telling  her  the  black  shadows  on  the  water  were  not 
shadows,  but  a  dream,  that  it  would  be  sweet  to  sink 
into  forgetfulness,  to  die,  to  become  a  memory  in 
the  sight  of  that  enchanted  water  with  the  fantastic 
glimmer,  in  sight  of  the  fathomless  sky  and  the 
mournful,  dreamy  shores  that  told  of  the  vanity  of 
our  life  and  of  the  existence  of  something  higher, 
blessed,  and  eternal.  The  past  was  vulgar  and  un- 
interesting, the  future  was  trivial,  and  that  marvel- 
lous night,  unique  in  a  lifetime,  would  soon  be  over, 
would  blend  with  eternity;  then,  why  live? 


102  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

And  Olga  Ivanovna  listened  alternately  to  Rya- 
bovsky's  voice  and  the  silence  of  the  night,  and 
thought  of  her  being  immortal  and  never  dying. 
The  turquoise  colour  of  the  water,  such  as  she  had 
never  seen  before,  the  sky,  the  river-banks,  the  black 
shadows,  and  the  unaccountable  jov  that  flooded  her 
soul,  all  told  her  that  she  would  make  a  great  artist, 
and  that  somewhere  in  the  distance,  in  the  infinite 
space  beyond  the  moonlight,  success,  glory,  the  love 
of  the  people,  lay  awaiting  her.  .  .  .  When  she 
gazed  steadily  without  blinking  into  the  distance, 
she  seemed  to  see  crowds  of  peoole,  lights,  trium- 
phant strains  of  music,  cries  of  enthusiasm,  she  her- 
self in  a  white  dress,  and  flowers  showered  upon  her 
from  all  sides.  She  thought,  too,  that  beside  her, 
leaning  with  his  elbows  on  the  rail  of  the  steamer, 
there  was  standing  a  real  great  man,  a  genius,  one 
of  God's  elect.  .  .  .  All  that  he  had  created  up  to 
the  present  was  fine,  new,  and  extraordinary,  but 
what  he  would  create  in  time,  when  with  maturity  his 
rare  talent  reached  its  full  development,  would  be 
astounding,  immeasurably  sublime;  and  that  could 
be  seen  by  his  face,  by  his  manner  of  expressing  him- 
self and  his  attitude  to  nature.  He  talked  of  shad- 
ows, of  the  tones  of  evening,  of  the  moonlight,  in  a 
special  way,  in  a  language  of  his  own,  so  that  one 
could  not  help  feeling  the  fascination  of  his  power 
over  nature.  He  was  very  handsome,  original,  and 
his  life,  free,  independent,  aloof  from  all  common 
cares,  was  like  the  life  of  a  bird. 

"  It's  growing  cooler,"  said  Olga  Ivanovna,  and 
she  gave  a  shudder. 


The  Grasshopper  103 

Ryabovsky  wrapped  her  in  his  cloak,  and  said 
mournfully: 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  in  your  power;  I  am  a  slave. 
Why  are  you  so  enchanting  today?  " 

He  kept  staring  intently  at  her,  and  his  eyes  were 
terrible.     And  she  was  afraid  to  look  at  him. 

"  I  love  you  madly,"  he  whispered,  breathing  on 
her  cheek.  "  Say  one  word  to  me  and  I  will  not  go 
on  living;  I  will  give  up  art  .  .  ."  he  muttered  in 
violent  emotion.      "  Love  me,  love  .   .   ." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,"  said  Olga  Ivanovna,  cov- 
ering her  eyes.  "  It's  dreadful !  How  about  Dv- 
mov?" 

"  What  of  Dymov?'  Why  Dymov?  What  have 
I  to  do  with  Dymov?  The  Volga,  the  moon,  beauty, 
my  love,  ecstasy,  and  there  is  no  such  thing  as  Dy- 
mov. .  .  .  Ah!  I  don't  know  ...  I  don't  care 
about  the  past;  give  me  one  moment,  one  in- 
stant! " 

Olga  Ivanovna's  heart  began  to  throb.  She  tried 
to  think  about  her  husband,  but  all  her  past,  with  her 
wedding,  with  Dymov,  and  with  her  "  At  Homes," 
seemed  to  her  petty,  trivial,  dingy,  unnecessary,  and 
far,  far  away.  .  .  .  Yes,  really,  what  of  Dymov? 
Why  Dymov?  What  had  she  to  do  with  Dymov? 
Had  he  any  existence  in  nature,  or  was  he  only  a 
dream? 

"  For  him,  a  simple  and  ordinary  man  the  happi- 
ness he  has  had  already  is  enough,"  she  thought,  cov- 
ering her  face  with  her  hands.  "  Let  them  con- 
demn me,  let  them  curse  me,  but  in  spite  of  them  all 
I  will  go  to  my  ruin;  I  will  go  to  my  ruin !  .  .  .  One 


104  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

must  experience  everything  in  life.  My  God!  how 
terrible  and  how  glorious!  " 

"  Well?  Well?  "  muttered  the  artist,  embracing 
her,  and  greedily  kissing  the  hands  with  which  she 
feebly  tried  to  thrust  him  from  her.  "  You  love 
me?  Yes?  Yes?  Oh,  what  a  night!  marvellous 
night!" 

"Yes,  what  a  night!"  she  whispered,  looking 
into  his  eyes,  which  were  bright  with  tears. 

Then  she  looked  round  quickly,  put  her  arms 
round  him,  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips. 

"  We  are  nearing  Kineshmo!  "  said  some  one  on 
the  other  side  of  the  deck. 

Thev  heard  heavy  footsteps;  it  was  a  waiter  from 
the  refreshment-bar. 

"  Waiter,"  said  Olga  Ivanovna,  laughing  and  cry- 
ing with  happiness,  "  bring  us  some  wine." 

The  artist,  pale  with  emotion,  sat  on  the  seat, 
looking  at  Olga  Ivanovna  with  adoring,  grateful 
eyes;  then  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  said,  smiling  lan- 
guidly: 

"I  am  tired" 

And  he  leaned  his  head  against  the  rail. 

V 

On  the  second  of  September  the  day  was  warm  and 
still,  but  overcast.  In  the  early  morning  a  light  mist 
had  hung  over  the  Volga,  and  after  nine  o'clock  it 
had  begun  to  spout  with  rain.  And  there  seemed  no 
hope  of  the  sky  clearing.  Over  their  morning  tea 
Ryabovsky  told  Olga  Ivanovna  that  painting  was  the 


The  Grasshopper  105 

most  ungrateful  and  boring  art,  that  he  was  not  an 
artist,  that  none  but  fools  thought  that  he  had  any 
talent,  and  all  at  once,  for  no  rhyme  or  reason,  he 
snatched  up  a  knife  and  with  it  scraped  over  his  very 
best  sketch.  After  his  tea  he  sat  plunged  in  gloom 
at  the  window  and  gazed  at  the  Volga.  And  now 
the  Volga  was  dingy,  all  of  one  even  colour  without 
a  gleam  of  light,  cold-looking.  Everything,  every- 
thing recalled  the  approach  of  dreary,  gloomy 
autumn.  And  it  seemed  as  though  nature  had  re- 
moved now  from  the  Volga  the  sumptuous  green 
covers  from  the  banks,  the  brilliant  reflections  of  the 
sunbeams,  the  transparent  blue  distance,  and  all  its 
smart  gala  array,  and  had  packed  it  away  in  boxes 
till  the  coming  spring,  and  the  crows  were  flying 
above  the  Volga  and  crying  tauntingly,  "  Bare, 
bare!" 

Ryabovsky  heard  their  cawing,  and  thought  he 
had  already  gone  off  and  lost  his  talent,  that  every- 
thing in  this  world  was  relative,  conditional,  and 
stupid,  and  that  he  ought  not  to  have  taken  up  with 
this  woman.  ...  In  short,  he  was  out  of  humour 
and  depressed. 

Olga  Ivanovna  sat  behind  the  screen  on  the  bed, 
and,  passing  her  fingers  through  her  lovely  flaxen 
hair,  pictured  herself  first  in  the  drawing-room,  then 
in  the  bedroom,  then  in  her  husband's  study;  her 
imagination  carried  her  to  the  theatre,  to  the  dress- 
maker, to  her  distinguished  friends.  Were  they 
getting  something  up  now?  Did  they  think  of  her? 
The  season  had  begun  by  now.  and  it  would  be  time 
to  think  about  her  "At  Homes."     And  Dymov? 


106  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Dear  Dymov!  with  what  gentleness  and  childlike 
pathos  he  kept  begging  her  in  his  letters  to  make 
haste  and  come  home !  Every  month  he  sent  her 
seventy-five  roubles,  and  when  she  wrote  him  that 
she  had  lent  the  artists  a  hundred  roubles,  he  sent 
that  hundred  too.  What  a  kind,  generous-hearted 
man!  The  travelling  wearied  Olga  Ivanovna;  she 
was  bored;  and  she  longed  to  get  away  from  the 
peasants,  from  the  damp  smell  of  the  river,  and  to 
cast  off  the  feeling  of  physical  uncleanliness  of  which 
she  was  conscious  all  the  time,  living  in  the  peasants' 
huts  and  wandering  from  village  to  village.  If  Rya- 
bovsky  had  not  given  his  word  to  the  artists  that  he 
would  stay  with  them  till  the  twentieth  of  September, 
they  might  have  gone  away  that  very  day.  And 
how  nice  that  would  have  been ! 

"My  God!"  moaned  Ryabovsky.  "Will  the 
sun  ever  come  out?  I  can't  go  on  with  a  sunny 
landscape  without  the  sun.   .   .   ." 

"  But  you  have  a  sketch  with  a  cloudy  sky,"  said 
Olga  Ivanovna,  coming  from  behind  the  screen. 
"  Do  you  remember,  in  the  right  foreground  forest 
trees,  on  the  left  a  herd  of  cows  and  geese?  You 
might  finish  it  now." 

"Aie!"  the  artist  scowled.  "Finish  it!  Can 
you  imagine  I  am  such  a  fool  that  I  don't  know 
what  I  want  to  do?  " 

"How  you  have  changed  to  me!  "  sighed  Olga 
Ivanovna. 

"  Well,  a  good  thing  too !  " 

Olga  Ivanovna's  face  quivered;  she  moved  away 
to  the  stove  and  began  to  cry. 


The  Grasshopper  107 

"Well,  that's  the  last  straw  —  crying!  Give 
over!  I  have  a  thousand  reasons  for  tears,  but  I 
am  not  crying." 

"A  thousand  reasons!"  cried  Olga  Ivanovna. 
"  The  chief  one  is  that  you  are  weary  of  me.  Yes !  " 
she  said,  and  broke  into  sobs.  "  If  one  is  to  tell  the 
truth,  you  are  ashamed  of  our  love.  You  keep  try- 
ing to  prevent  the  artists  from  noticing  it,  though  it 
is  impossible  to  conceal  it,  and  they  have  known  all 
about  it  for  ever  so  long." 

"  Olga,  one  thing  I  beg  you,"  said  the  artist  in  an 
imploring  voice,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart  — "  one 
thing;  don't  worry  me!  I  want  nothing  else  from 
you !  " 

"  But  swear  that  you  love  me  still !  " 

"This  is  agony!"  the  artist  hissed  through  his 
teeth,  and  he  jumped  up.  "  It  will  end  by  my  throw- 
ing myself  in  the  Volga  or  going  out  of  my  mind! 
Let  me  alone  !  " 

"  Come,  kill  me,  kill  me!  "  cried  Olga  Ivanovna. 
"Kill  me!" 

She  sobbed  again,  and  went  behind  the  screen. 
There  was  a  swish  of  rain  on  the  straw  thatch  of 
the  hut.  Ryabovsky  clutched  his  head  and  strode 
up  and  down  the  hut;  then  with  a  resolute  face,  as 
though  bent  on  proving  something  to  somebody,  put 
on  his  cap,  slung  his  gun  over  his  shoulder,  and  went 
out  of  the  hut. 

After  he  had  gone,  Olga  Ivanovna  lay  a  long  time 
on  the  bed,  crying.  At  first  she  thought  it  would  be 
a  good  thing  to  poison  herself,  so  that  when  Rya- 
bovsky came  back  he  would  find  her  dead;  then  her 


108  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

imagination  carried  her  to  her  drawing-room,  to  her 
husband's  study,  and  she  imagined  herself  sitting 
motionless  beside  Dymov  and  enjoying  the  physical 
peace  and  cleanliness,  and  in  the  evening  sitting  in 
the  theatre,  listening  to  Mazini.  And  a  yearning 
for  civilization,  for  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  town, 
for  celebrated  people  sent  a  pang  to  her  heart.  A 
peasant  woman  came  into  the  hut  and  began  in  a 
leisurely  way  lighting  the  stove  to  get  the  dinner. 
There  was  a  smell  of  charcoal  fumes,  and  the  air 
was  filled  with  bluish  smoke.  The  artists  came  in, 
in  muddy  high  boots  and  with  faces  wet  with  rain, 
examined  their  sketches,  and  comforted  themselves 
by  saying  that  the  Volga  had  its  charms  even  in  bad 
weather.  On  the  wall  the  cheap  clock  went  "  tic-tic- 
tic."  .  .  .  The  flies,  feeling  chilled,  crowded  round 
the  ikon  in  the  corner,  buzzing,  and  one  could  hear 
the  cockroaches  scurrying  about  among  the  thick 
portfolios  under  the  seats.   .   .   . 

Ryabovsky  came  home  as  the  sun  was  setting. 
He  flung  his  cap  on  the  table,  and,  without  removing 
his  muddy  boots,  sank  pale  and  exhausted  on  the 
bench  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  tired  .  .  ."  he  said,  and  twitched  his  eye- 
brows, trying  to  raise  his  eyelids. 

To  be  nice  to  him  and  to  show  she  was  not  cross, 
Olga  Ivanovna  went  up  to  him,  gave  him  a  silent 
kiss,  and  passed  the  comb  through  his  fair  hair. 
She  meant  to  comb  it  for  him. 

"  What's  that?  "  he  said,  starting  as  though  some- 
thing cold  had  touched  him,  and  he  opened  his  eyes. 
"What  is  it?     Please  let  me  alone." 


The  Grasshopper  109 

He  thrust  her  off,  and  moved  away.  And  it 
seemed  to  her  that  there  was  a  look  of  aversion  and 
annoyance  on  his  face. 

At  that  time  the  peasant  woman  cautiously  carried 
him,  in  both  hands,  a  plate  of  cabbage-soup.  And 
Olga  Ivanovna  saw  how  she  wetted  her  fat  fingers 
in  it.  And  the  dirty  peasant  woman,  standing  with 
her  body  thrust  forward,  and  the  cabbage-soup  which 
Ryabovsky  began  eating  greedily,  and  the  hut,  and 
their  whole  way  of  life,  which  she  at  first  had  so 
loved  for  its  simplicity  and  artistic  disorder,  seemed 
horrible  to  her  now.  She  suddenly  felt  insulted,  and 
said  coldly: 

"  We  must  part  for  a  time,  or  else  from  boredom 
we  shall  quarrel  in  earnest.  I  am  sick  of  this;  I  am 
going  today." 

"Going  how?     Astride  on  a  broomstick?" 

"  Today  is  Thursday,  so  the  steamer  will  be  here 
at  half-past  nine." 

"Eh?  Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  Well,  go,  then  .  .  ." 
Ryabovsky  said  softly,  wiping  his  mouth  with  a 
towel  instead  of  a  dinner  napkin.  "  You  are  dull 
and  have  nothing  to  do  here,  and  one  would  have 
to  be  a  great  egoist  to  try  and  keep  you.  Go  home, 
and  we  shall  meet  again  after  the  twentieth." 

Olga  Ivanovna  packed  in  good  spirits.  Her 
cheeks  positively  glowed  with  pleasure.  Could  it 
really  be  true,  she  asked  herself,  that  she  would 
soon  be  writing  in  her  drawing-room  and  sleeping  in 
her  bedroom,  and  dining  with  a  cloth  on  the  table? 
A  weight  was  lifted  from  her  heart,  and  she  no 
longer  felt  angry  with  the  artist. 


no  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  My  paints  and  brushes  I  will  leave  with  you, 
Ryabovsky,"  she  said.  "  You  can  bring  what's  left. 
.  .  .  Mind,  now,  don't  be  lazy  here  when  I  am 
gone;  don't  mope,  but  work.  You  are  such  a  splen- 
did fellow,  Ryabovsky!" 

At  ten  o'clock  Ryabovsky  gave  her  a  farewell  kiss, 
in  order,  as  she  thought,  to  avoid  kissing  her  on  the 
steamer  before  the  artists,  and  went  with  her  to 
the  landing-stage.  The  steamer  soon  came  up  and 
carried  her  away. 

She  arrived  home  two  and  a  half  days  later. 
Breathless  with  excitement,  she  went,  without  taking 
off  her  hat  or  waterproof,  into  the  drawing-room 
and  thence  into  the  dining-room.  Dymov,  with  his 
waistcoat  unbuttoned  and  no  coat,  was  sitting  at  the 
table  sharpening  a  knife  on  a  fork;  before  him  lay 
a  grouse  on  a  plate.  As  Olga  Ivanovna  went  into 
the  flat  she  was  convinced  that  it  was  essential  to 
hide  everything  from  her  husband,  and  that  she 
would  have  the  strength  and  skill  to  do  so;  but  now, 
when  she  saw  his  broad,  mild,  happy  smile,  and 
shining,  joyful  eyes,  she  felt  that  to  deceive  this  man 
was  as  vile,  as  revolting,  and  as  impossible  and  out 
of  her  power  as  to  bear  false  witness,  to  steal,  or 
to  kill,  and  in  a  flash  she  resolved  to  tell  him  all 
that  had  happened.  Letting  him  kiss  and  embrace 
her,  she  sank  down  on  her  knees  before  him  and 
hid  her  face. 

"  What  is  it,  what  is  it,  little  mother?  "  he  asked 
tenderly.      "  Were  you  homesick?  " 

She  raised  her  face,  red  with  shame,  and  gazed 
at  him  with  a  guilty  and  imploring  look,  but  fear 


The  Grasshopper  ill 

and  shame  prevented  her  from  telling  him  the  truth. 
"  Nothing,"  she  said;  "  it's  just  nothing.   .   .   ." 
"  Let  us  sit  down,"  he  said,  raising  her  and  seat- 
ing her  at  the  table.     "  That's  right,  eat  the  grouse. 
You  are  starving,  poor  darling." 

She  eagerly  breathed  in  the  atmosphere  of  home 
and  ate  the  grouse,  while  he  watched  her  with  ten- 
derness and  laughed  with  delight. 

VI 

Apparently,  by  the  middle  of  the  winter  Dymov 
began  to  suspect  that  he  was  being  deceived.  As 
though  his  conscience  was  not  clear,  he  could  not 
look  his  wife  straight  in  the  face,  did  not  smile  with 
delight  when  he  met  her,  and  to  avoid  being  left 
alone  with  her,  he  often  brought  in  to  dinner  his 
colleague,  Korostelev,  a  little  close-cropped  man 
with  a  wrinkled  face,  who  kept  buttoning  and  unbut- 
toning his  reefer  jacket  with  embarrassment  when 
he  talked  with  Olga  Tvanovna,  and  then  with  his 
right  hand  nipped  his  left  moustache.  At  dinner 
the  two  doctors  talked  about  the  fact  that  a  displace- 
ment of  the  diaphragm  was  sometimes  accompanied 
by  irregularities  of  the  heart,  or  that  a  great  num- 
ber of  neurotic  complaints  were  met  with  of  late,  or 
that  Dymov  had  the  day  before  found  a  cancer  of 
the  lower  abdomen  while  dissecting  a  corpse  with 
the  diagnosis  of  pernicious  anaemia.  And  it  seemed 
as  though  they  were  talking  of  medicine  to  give 
Olga  Ivanovna  a  chance  of  being  silent  —  that  is, 
of  not  lying.     After  dinner  Korostelev  sat  down  to 


112  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  piano,   while   Dymov  sighed  and  said  to  him : 
"  Ech,    brother  —  well,    well!      Play    something 
melancholy." 

Hunching  up  his  shoulders  and  stretching  his 
fingers  wide  apart,  Korostelev  played  some  chords 
and  began  singing  in  a  tenor  voice,  "  Show  me  the 
abode  where  the  Russian  peasant  would  not  groan," 
while  Dymov  sighed  once  more,  propped  his  head 
on  his  fist,  and  sank  into  thought. 

Olga  Ivanovna  had  been  extremely  imprudent  in 
her  conduct  of  late.     Every  morning  she  woke  up 
in  a  very  bad  humour  and  with  the  thought  that  she 
no  longer  cared  for  Ryabovsky,  and  that,  thank  God, 
it  was  all  over  now.     But  as  she  drank  her  coffee 
she  reflected  that  Ryabovsky  had  robbed  her  of  her 
husband,   and  that  now  she  was  left  with  neither 
her  husband  nor  Ryabovsky;  then  she  remembered 
talks  she  had  heard  among  her  acquaintances  of  a 
picture  Ryabovsky  was  preparing  for  the  exhibition, 
something   striking,   a  mixture   of  genre  and  land- 
scape, in  the  style  of  Polyenov,  about  which  every 
one  who  had  been  into  his  studio  went  into  raptures; 
and  this,  of  course,  she  mused,  he  had  created  under 
her  influence,  and  altogether,  thanks  to  her  influence, 
he  had  greatly  changed  for  the  better.     Her  influ- 
ence was  so  beneficent  and  essential  that  if  she  were 
to  leave  him  he  might  perhaps  go  to  ruin.     And  she 
remembered,  too,  that  the  last  time  he  had  come  to 
see  her  in  a  great-coat  with  flecks  on  it  and  a  new 
tie,  he  had  asked  her  languidly: 
"  Am  I  beautiful?" 
And  with  his  elegance,  his  long  curls,  and  his  blue 


The  Grasshopper  113 

eyes,  he  really  was  very  beautiful  (or  perhaps  it 
only  seemed  so),  and  he  had  been  affectionate  to 
her. 

Considering  and  remembering  many  things  Olga 
Ivanovna  dressed  and  in  great  agitation  drove  to 
Ryabovsky's  studio.  She  found  him  in  high  spirits, 
and  enchanted  with  his  really  magnificent  picture. 
He  was  dancing  about  and  playing  the  fool  and 
answering  serious  questions  with  jokes.  Olga  Ivan- 
ovna was  jealous  of  the  picture  and  hated  it,  but 
from  politeness  she  stood  before  the  picture  for  five 
minutes  in  silence,  and,  heaving  a  sigh,  as  though 
before  a  holy  shrine,  said  softly: 

"  Yes,  you  have  never  painted  anything  like  it 
before.  Do  you  know,  it  is  positively  awe-inspir- 
ing?" 

And  then  she  began  beseeching  him  to  love  her 
and  not  to  cast  her  off,  to  have  pity  on  her  in  her 
misery  and  her  wretchedness.  She  shed  tears, 
kissed  his  hands,  insisted  on  his  swearing  that  he 
loved  her,  told  him  that  without  her  good  influence 
he  would  go  astray  and  be  ruined.  And,  when  she 
had  spoilt  his  good-humour,  feeling  herself  humili- 
ated, she  would  drive  off  to  her  dressmaker  or  to 
an  actress  of  her  acquaintance  to  try  and  get  theatre 
tickets. 

If  she  did  not  find  him  at  his  studio  she  left  a 
letter  in  which  she  swore  that  if  he  did  not  come  to 
see  her  that  day  she  would  poison  herself.  He  was 
scared,  came  to  see  her,  and  stayed  to  dinner.  Re- 
gardless of  her  husband's  presence,  he  would  say 
rude  things  to  her,  and  she  would  answer  him  in 


114  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  same  way.  Both  felt  they  were  a  burden  to 
each  other,  that  they  were  tyrants  and  enemies,  and 
were  wrathful,  and  in  their  wrath  did  not  notice 
that  their  behaviour  was  unseemly,  and  that  even 
Korostelev,  with  his  close-cropped  head,  saw  it  all. 
After  dinner  Ryabovsky  made  haste  to  say  good-bye 
and  get  away. 

"  Where  are  you  off  to?  "  Olga  Ivanovna  would 
ask  him  in  the  hall,  looking  at  him  with  hatred. 

Scowling  and  screwing  up  his  eyes,  he  mentioned 
some  lady  of  their  acquaintance,  and  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  laughing  at  her  jealousy  and  wanted  to 
annoy  her.  She  went  to  her  bedroom  and  lay  down 
on  her  bed;  from  jealousy,  anger,  a  sense  of  humili- 
ation and  shame,  she  bit  the  pillow  and  began  sob- 
bing aloud.  Dymov  left  Korostelev  in  the  drawing- 
room,  went  into  the  bedroom,  and  with  a  desperate 
and  embarrassed  face  said  softly: 

"  Don't  cry  so  loud,  little  mother;  there's  no  need. 
You  must  be  quiet  about  it.  You  must  not  let  peo- 
ple see.  .  .  .  You  know  what  is  done  is  done,  and 
can't  be  mended." 

Not  knowing  how  to  ease  the  burden  of  her  jeal- 
ousy, which  actually  set  her  temples  throbbing  with 
pain,  and  thinking  still  that  things  might  be  set 
right,  she  would  wash,  powder  her  tear-stained  face, 
and  fly  off  to  the  lady  mentioned. 

Not  finding  Ryabovsky  with  her,  she  would  drive 
off  to  a  second,  then  to  a  third.  At  first  she  was 
ashamed  to  go  about  like  this,  but  afterwards  she 
got  used  to  it,  and  it  would  happen  that  in  one  eve- 
ning she  would  make  the  round  of  all  her  female 


The  Grasshopper  115 

acquaintances  in  search  of  Ryabovsky,  and  they  all 
understood  it. 

One  day  she  said  to  Ryabovsky  of  her  husband: 

"  That  man  crushes  me  with  his  magnanimity." 

This  phrase  pleased  her  so  much  that  when  she 
met  the  artists  who  knew  of  her  affair  with  Rya- 
bovsky she  said  every  time  of  her  husband,  with 
a  vigorous  movement  of  her  arm: 

"  That  man  crushes  me  with  his  magnanimity." 

Their  manner  of  life  was  the  same  as  it  had  been 
the  year  before.  On  Wednesdays  they  were  "  At 
Home  ";  an  actor  recited,  the  artists  sketched.  The 
violoncellist  played,  a  singer  sang,  and  invariably  at 
half-past  eleven  the  door  leading  to  the  dining-room 
opened  and  Dymov,  smiling,  said: 

"  Come  to  supper,  gentlemen." 

As  before,  Olga  Ivanovna  hunted  celebrities, 
found  them,  was  not  satisfied,  and  went  in  pursuit 
of  fresh  ones.  As  before,  she  came  back  late  every 
night;  but  now  Dymov  was  not,  as  last  year,  asleep, 
but  sitting  in  his  study  at  work  of  some  sort.  He 
went  to  bed  at  three  o'clock  and  got  up  at  eight. 

One  evening  when  she  was  getting  ready  to  go 
to  the  theatre  and  standing  before  the  pier  glass, 
Dymov  came  into  her  bedroom,  wearing  his  dress- 
coat  and  a  white  tie.  He  was  smiling  gently  and 
looked  into  his  wife's  face  joyfully,  as  in  old  days; 
his  face  was  radiant. 

"  I  have  just  been  defending  my  thesis,"  he  said, 
sitting  down  and  smoothing  his  knees. 

"  Defending?  "  asked  Olga  Ivanovna. 

"  Oh,  oh!  "  he  laughed,  and  he  craned  his  neck  to 


n6  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

see  his  wife's  face  in  the  mirror,  for  she  was  still 
standing  with  her  back  to  him,  doing  up  her  hair. 
"  Oh,  oh,"  he  repeated,  "  do  you  know  it's  very  pos- 
sible they  may  offer  me  the  Readership  in  General 
Pathology?     It  seems  like  it." 

It  was  evident  from  his  beaming,  blissful  face  that 
if  Olga  Ivanovna  had  shared  with  him  his  joy  and 
triumph  he  would  have  forgiven  her  everything, 
both  the  present  and  the  future,  and  would  have  for- 
gotten everything,  but  she  did  not  understand  what 
was  meant  by  a  "  readership  "  or  by  "  general 
pathology";  besides,  she  was  afraid  of  being  late 
for  the  theatre,  and  she  said  nothing. 

He  sat  there  another  two  minutes,  and  with  a 
guilty  smile  went  away. 

VII 

It  had  been  a  very  troubled  day. 

Dymov  had  a  very  bad  headache;  he  had  no 
breakfast,  and  did  not  go  to  the  hospital,  but  spent 
the  whole  time  lying  on  his  sofa  in  the  study.  Olga 
Ivanovna  went  as  usual  at  midday  to  see  Ryabovsky, 
to  show  him  her  still-life  sketch,  and  to  ask  him  why 
he  had  not  been  to  see  her  the  evening  before.  The 
sketch  seemed  to  her  worthless,  and  she  had  painted 
it  only  in  order  to  have  an  additional  reason  for 
going  to  the  artist. 

She  went  in  to  him  without  ringing,  and  as  she 
was  taking  off  her  goloshes  in  the  entry  she  heard 
a  sound  as  of  something  running  softly  in  the  studio, 
with  a  feminine  rustle  of  skirts;  and  as  she  hastened 


The  Grasshopper  117 

to  peep  in  she  caught  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a  bit 
of  brown  petticoat,  which  vanished  behind  a  big  pic- 
ture draped,  together  with  the  easel,  with  black 
calico,  to  the  floor.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that 
a  woman  was  hiding  there.  How  often  Olga  Ivan- 
ovna  herself  had  taken  refuge  behind  that  pic- 
ture ! 

Ryabovsky,  evidently  much  embarrassed,  held  out 
both  hands  to  her,  as  though  surprised  at  her  arrival, 
and  said  with  a  forced  smile: 

"  Aha  !  Very  glad  to  see  you  !  Anything  nice 
to  tell  me?" 

Olga  Ivanovna's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  felt 
ashamed  and  bitter,  and  would  not  for  a  million 
roubles  have  consented  to  speak  in  the  presence  of 
the  outsider,  the  rival,  the  deceitful  woman  who  was 
standing  now  behind  the  picture,  and  probably  gig- 
gling malignantly. 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  sketch,"  she  said  timidly 
in  a  thin  voice,  and  her  lips  quivered.  "  Nature 
morte." 

"Ah  — ah!  ...  A  sketch?" 

The  artist  took  the  sketch  in  his  hands,  and  as 
he  examined  it  walked,  as  it  were  mechanically,  into 
the  other  room. 

Olga  Ivanovna  followed  him  humbly. 

"  Nature  morte  .  .  .  first-rate  sort,"  he  muttered, 
falling  into  rhyme.  "  Kurort  .  .  .  sport  .  .  . 
port  .   .   ." 

From  the  studio  came  the  sound  of  hurried  foot- 
steps and  the  rustle  of  a  skirt. 

So   she   had   gone.     Olga    Ivanovna   wanted   to 


li8  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

scream  aloud,  to  hit  the  artist  on  the  head  with 
something  heavy,  but  she  could  see  nothing  through 
her  tears,  was  crushed  by  her  shame,  and  felt  her- 
self, not  Olga  Ivanovna,  not  an  artist,  but  a  little 
insect. 

"  I  am  tired  .  .  ."  said  the  artist  languidly,  look- 
ing at  the  sketch  and  tossing  his  head  as  though 
struggling  with  drowsiness.  "  It's  very  nice,  of 
course,  but  here  a  sketch  today,  a  sketch  last  year, 
another  sketch  in  a  month  ...  I  wonder  you  are 
not  bored  with  them.  If  I  were  you  I  should  give 
up  painting  and  work  seriously  at  music  or  some- 
thing. You're  not  an  artist,  you  know,  but  a  musi- 
cian. But  you  can't  think  how  tired  I  am!  I'll  tell 
them  to  bring  us  some  tea,  shall  I?  " 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  and  Olga  Ivanovna 
heard  him  give  some  order  to  his  footman.  To 
avoid  farewells  and  explanations,  and  above  all  to 
avoid  bursting  into  sobs,  she  ran  as  fast  as  she  could, 
before  Ryabovsky  came  back,  to  the  entry,  put  on 
her  goloshes,  and  went  out  into  the  street;  then  she 
breathed  easily,  and  felt  she  was  free  for  ever  from 
Ryabovsky  and  from  painting  and  from  the  burden 
of  shame  which  had  so  crushed  her  in  the  studio. 
It  was  all  over! 

She  drove  to  her  dressmaker's;  then  to  see  Bar- 
nay,  who  had  only  arrived  the  day  before;  from 
Barnay  to  a  music-shop,  and  all  the  time  she  was 
thinking  how  she  would  write  Ryabovsky  a  cold, 
cruel  letter  full  of  personal  dignity,  and  how  in  the 
spring  or  the  summer  she  would  go  with  Dymov  to 


The  Grasshopper  119 

the  Crimea,  free  herself  finally  from  the  past  there, 
and  begin  a  new  life. 

On  getting  home  late  in  the  evening  she  sat  down 
in  the  drawing-room,  without  taking  off  her  things, 
to  begin  the  letter.  Ryabovsky  had  told  her  she 
was  not  an  artist,  and  to  pay  him  out  she  wrote  to 
him  now  that  he  painted  the  same  thing  every  year, 
and  said  exactly  the  same  thing  every  day;  that  he 
was  at  a  standstill,  and  that  nothing  more  would 
come  of  him  than  had  come  already.  She  wanted 
to  write,  too,  that  he  owed  a  great  deal  to  her  good 
influence,  and  that  if  he  was  going  wrong  it  was  only 
because  her  influence  was  paralysed  by  various  dubi- 
ous persons  like  the  one  who  had  been  hiding  behind 
the  picture  that  day. 

"  Little  mother !  "  Dymov  called  from  the  study, 
without  opening  the  door. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Don't  come  in  to  me,  but  only  come  to  the  door 
—  that's  right.  .  .  .  The  day  before  yesterday  I 
must  have  caught  diphtheria  at  the  hospital,  and 
now  ...  I  am  ill.  Make  haste  and  send  for 
Korostelev." 

Olga  Ivanovna  always  called  her  husband  by  his 
surname,  as  she  did  all  the  men  of  her  acquaintance; 
she  disliked  his  Christian  name,  Osip,  because  it 
reminded  her  of  the  Osip  in  Gogol  and  the  silly  pun 
on  his  name.     But  now  she  cried: 

"  Osip,  it  cannot  be!  " 

"Send  for  him;  I  feel  ill,"  Dymov  said  behind 
the  door,  and  she  could  hear  him  go  back  to  the 


120  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

sofa  and  lie  down.  "Send!  "  she  heard  his  voice 
faintly. 

"  Good  Heavens!  "  thought  Olga  Ivanovna,  turn- 
ing chill  with  horror.      "  Why,  it's  dangerous !  " 

For  no  reason  she  took  the  candle  and  went  into 
the  bedroom,  and  there,  reflecting  what  she  must  do, 
glanced  casually  at  herself  in  the  pier  glass.  With 
her  pale,  frightened  face,  in  a  jacket  with  sleeves 
high  on  the  shoulders,  with  yellow  ruches  on  her 
bosom,  and  with  stripes  running  in  unusual  directions 
on  her  skirt,  she  seemed  to  herself  horrible  and  dis- 
gusting. She  suddenly  felt  poignantly  sorry  for 
Dymov,  for  his  boundless  love  for  her,  for  his  young 
life,  and  even  for  the  desolate  little  bed  in  which 
he  had  not  slept  for  so  long;  and  she  remembered 
his  habitual,  gentle,  submissive  smile.  She  wept  bit- 
terly, and  wrote  an  imploring  letter  to  Korostelev. 
It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  night. 

VIII 

When  towards  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  Olga 
Ivanovna,  her  head  heavy  from  want  of  sleep  and 
her  hair  unbrushed,  came  out  of  her  bedroom,  look- 
ing unattractive  and  with  a  guilty  expression  on  her 
face,  a  gentleman  with  a  black  beard,  apparently  the 
doctor,  passed  by  her  into  the  entry.  There  was  a 
smell  of  drugs.  Korostelev  was  standing  near  the 
study  door,  twisting  his  left  moustache  with  his  right 
hand. 

"  Excuse  me,  I  can't  let  you  go  in,"  he  said  surlily 


The  Grasshopper  121 

to  Olga  Ivanovna;  "  it's  catching.  Besides,  it's  no 
use,  really;  he  is  delirious,  anyway." 

"  Has  he  really  got  diphtheria?  "  Olga  Ivanovna 
asked  in  a  whisper. 

"  People  who  wantonly  risk  infection  ought  to  be 
hauled  up  and  punished  for  it,"  muttered  Koroste- 
lev,  not  answering  Olga  Ivanovna's  question.  Do 
you  know  why  he  caught  it?  On  Tuesday  he  was 
sucking  up  the  mucus  through  a  pipette  from  a  boy 
with  diphtheria.  And  what  for?  It  was  stupid. 
.  .  .  Just  from  folly.   .  .  ." 

"  Is  it  dangerous,  very?"  asked  Olga  Ivanovna. 

aYes;  they  say  it  is  the  malignant  form.  We 
ought  to  send  for  Shrek  really." 

A  little  red-haired  man  with  a  long  nose  and  a 
Jewish  accent  arrived;  then  a  tall,  stooping,  shaggy 
individual,  who  looked  like  a  head  deacon;  then  a 
stout  young  man  with  a  red  face  and  spectacles. 
These  were  doctors  who  came  to  watch  by  turns  be- 
side their  colleague.  Korostelev  did  not  go  home 
when  his  turn  was  over,  but  remained  and  wandered 
about  the  rooms  like  an  uneasy  spirit.  The  maid 
kept  getting  tea  for  the  various  doctors,  and  was 
constantly  running  to  the  chemist,  and  there  was  no 
one  to  do  the  rooms.  There  was  a  dismal  stillness 
in  the  flat. 

Olga  Ivanovna  sat  in  her  bedroom  and  thought 
that  God  was  punishing  her  for  having  deceived  her 
husband.  That  silent,  unrepining,  uncomprehended 
creature,  robbed  by  his  mildness  of  all  personality 
and  will,  weak  from  excessive  kindness,  had  been 


122  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

suffering  in  obscurity  somewhere  on  his  sofa,  and 
had  not  complained.  And  if  he  were  to  complain 
even  in  delirium,  the  doctors  watching  by  his  bedside 
would  learn  that  diphtheria  was  not  the  only  cause 
of  his  sufferings.  They  would  ask  Korostelev.  He 
knew  all  about  it,  and  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  he 
looked  at  his  friend's  wife  with  eyes  that  seemed  to 
say  that  she  was  the  real  chief  criminal  and  diph- 
theria was  only  her  accomplice.  She  did  not  think 
now  of  the  moonlight  evening  on  the  Volga,  nor  the 
words  of  love,  nor  their  poetical  life  in  the  peasant's 
hut.  She  thought  only  that  from  an  idle  whim, 
from  self-indulgence,  she  had  sullied  herself  all  over 
from  head  to  foot  in  something  filthy,  sticky,  which 
one  could  never  wash  off.   .   .   . 

"  Oh,  how  fearfully  false  I've  been  !  "  she  thought, 
recalling  the  troubled  passion  she  had  known  with 
Ryabovsky.      "  Curse  it  all!   .   .   ." 

At  four  o'clock  she  dined  with  Korostelev.  He 
did  nothing  but  scowl  and  drink  red  wine,  and  did 
not  eat  a  morsel.  She  ate  nothing,  either.  At  one 
minute  she  was  praying  inwardly  and  vowing  to  God 
that  if  Dymov  recovered  she  would  love  him  again 
and  be  a  faithful  wife  to  him.  Then,  forgetting 
herself  for  a  minute,  she  would  look  at  Korostelev, 
and  think:  "  Surely  it  must  be  dull  to  be  a  humble, 
obscure  person,  not  remarkable  in  any  way,  espe- 
cially with  such  a  wrinkled  face  and  bad  manners!  " 
Then  it  seemed  to  her  that  God  would  strike  her 
dead  that  minute  for  not  having  once  been  in  her 
husband's  study,  for  fear  of  infection.  And  alto- 
gether she  had  a  dull,  despondent  feeling  and  a  con- 


The  Grasshopper  123 

viction  that  her  life  was  spoilt,  and  that  there  was 
no  setting  it  right  anyhow.   .   .   . 

After  dinner  darkness  came  on.  When  Olga 
Ivanovna  went  into  the  drawing-room  Korostelev 
was  asleep  on  the  sofa,  with  a  gold-embroidered  silk 
cushion  under  his  head. 

"  Khee-poo-ah,"  he  snored — "  khee-poo-ah." 

And  the  doctors  as  they  came  to  sit  up  and  went 
away  again  did  not  notice  this  disorder.  The  fact 
that  a  strange  man  was  asleep  and  snoring  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  the  sketches  on  the  walls  and  the 
exquisite  decoration  of  the  room,  and  the  fact  that 
the  lady  of  the  house  was  dishevelled  and  untidy  — 
all  that  aroused  not  the  slightest  interest  now.  One 
of  the  doctors  chanced  to  laugh  at  something,  and 
the  laugh  had  a  strange  and  timid  sound  that  made 
one's  heart  ache. 

When  Olga  Ivanovna  went  into  the  drawing-room 
next  time,  Korostelev  was  not  asleep,  but  sitting  up 
and  smoking. 

"  He  has  diphtheria  of  the  nasal  cavity,"  he  said 
in  a  low  voice,  "  and  the  heart  is  not  working  prop- 
erly now.     Things  are  in  a  bad  way,  really." 

"  But  you  will  send  for  Shrek?  "  said  Olga  Ivan- 
ovna. 

"  He  has  been  already.  It  was  he  noticed 
that  the  diphtheria  had  passed  into  the  nose. 
What's  the  use  of  Shrek!  Shrek's  no  use  at  all, 
really.  He  is  Shrek,  I  am  Korostelev,  and  nothing 
more." 

The  time  dragged  on  fearfully  slowly.  Olga 
Ivanovna  lay  down  in  her  clothes  on  her  bed,  that 


124  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

had  not  been  made  all  day,  and  sank  into  a  doze. 
She  dreamed  that  the  whole  flat  was  filled  up  from 
floor  to  ceiling  with  a  huge  piece  of  iron,  and  that 
if  they  could  only  get  the  iron  out  they  would  all  be 
light-hearted  and  happy.  Waking,  she  realized 
that  it  was  not  the  iron  but  Dymov's  illness  that  was 
weighing  on  her. 

"  Nature  morte,  port  .  .  ."  she  thought,  sinking 
into  forgetfulness  again.  "  Sport  .  .  .  Kurort  .  .  . 
and  what  of  Shrek?  Shrek  .  .  .  trek  .  .  .  wreck. 
.  .  .  And  where  are  my  friends  now?  Do  they 
know  that  we  are  in  trouble?  Lord,  save  .  .  . 
spare!     Shrek  .  .  .  trek  .  .  ." 

And  again  the  iron  was  there.  .  .  .  The  time 
dragged  on  slowly,  though  the  clock  on  the  lower 
storey  struck  frequently.  And  bells  were  continu- 
ally ringing  as  the  doctors  arrived.  .  .  .  The  house- 
maid came  in  with  an  empty  glass  on  a  tray,  and 
asked,  "Shall  I  make  the  bed,  madam?"  and  get- 
ting no  answer,  went  away. 

The  clock  below  struck  the  hour.  She  dreamed 
of  the  rain  on  the  Volga;  and  again  some  one  came 
into  her  bedroom,  she  thought  a  stranger.  Olga 
Ivanovna  jumped  up,  and  recognized  Korostelev. 

11  What  time  is  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  About  three." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  What,  indeed!  .  .  .  I've  come  to  tell  you  he  is 
passing.   .   .   ." 

He  gave  a  sob,  sat  down  on  the  bed  beside  her, 
and  wiped   away  the   tears   with   his   sleeve.     She 


The  Grasshopper  125 

could  not  grasp  it  at  once,  but  turned  cold  all  over 
and  began  slowly  crossing  herself. 

"  He  is  passing,"  he  repeated  in  a  shrill  voice, 
and  again  he  gave  a  sob.  "  He  is  dying  because  he 
sacrificed  himself.  What  a  loss  for  science!"  he 
said  bitterly.  "  Compare  him  with  all  of  us.  He 
was  a  great  man,  an  extraordinary  man!  What 
gifts!  What  hopes  we  all  had  of  him!  "  Koros- 
telev  went  on,  wringing  his  hands:  "  Merciful  God, 
he  was  a  man  of  science;  we  shall  never  look  on  his 
like  again.  Osip  Dymov,  what  have  you  done  — 
aie,  aie,  my  God !  " 

Korostelev  covered  his  face  with  both  hands  in 
despair,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  And  his  moral  force,"  he  went  on,  seeming  to 
grow  more  and  more  exasperated  against  some  one. 
"  Not  a  man,  but  a  pure,  good,  loving  soul,  and 
clean  as  crystal.  He  served  science  and  died  for 
science.  And  he  worked  like  an  ox  night  and  day  — 
no  one  spared  him  —  and  with  his  youth  and  his 
learning  he  had  to  take  a  private  practice  and  work 
at  translations  at  night  to  pay  for  these  .  .  .  vile 
rags!" 

Korostelev  looked  with  hatred  at  Olga  Ivanovna, 
snatched  at  the  sheet  with  both  hands  and  angrily 
tore  it,  as  though  it  were  to  blame. 

"  He  did  not  spare  himself,  and  others  did  not 
spare  him.     Oh,  what's  the  use  of  talking!  " 

"  Yes,  he  was  a  rare  man,"  said  a  bass  voice  in 
the  drawing-room. 

Olga  Ivanovna  remembered  her  whole  life  with 


126  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

him  from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  with  all  its  de- 
tails, and  suddenly  she  understood  that  he  really  was 
an  extraordinary,  rare,  and,  compared  with  every 
one  else  she  knew,  a  great  man.  And  remembering 
how  her  father,  now  dead,  and  all  the  other  doctors 
had  behaved  to  him,  she  realized  that  they  really 
had  seen  in  him  a  future  celebrity.  The  walls,  the 
ceiling,  the  lamp,  and  the  carpet  on  the  floor,  seemed 
to  be  winking  at  her  sarcastically,  as  though  they 
would  say,  "You  were  blind!  you  were  blind!" 
With  a  wail  she  flung  herself  out  of  the  bedroom, 
dashed  by  some  unknown  man  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  ran  into  her  husband's  study.  He  was  lying 
motionless  on  the  sofa,  covered  to  the  waist  with  a 
quilt.  His  face  was  fearfully  thin  and  sunken,  and 
was  of  a  greyish-yellow  colour  such  as  is  never  seen 
in  the  living;  only  from  the  forehead,  from  the  black 
eyebrows  and  from  the  familiar  smile,  could  he  be 
recognized  as  Dymov.  Olga  Ivanovna  hurriedly 
felt  his  chest,  his  forehead,  and  his  hands.  The 
chest  was  still  warm,  but  the  forehead  and  hands 
were  unpleasantly  cold,  and  the  half-open  eyes 
looked,  not  at  Olga  Ivanovna,  but  at  the  quilt. 

"  Dymov!"  she  called  aloud,  "Dymov!"  She 
wanted  to  explain  to  him  that  it  had  been  a  mistake, 
that  all  was  not  lost,  that  life  might  still  be  beauiful 
and  happv,  that  he  was  an  extraordinary,  rare,  great 
man,  and  that  she  would  all  her  life  worship  him 
and  bow  down  in  homage  and  holy  awe  before 
him    .   .   . 

"Dymov!"  she  called  him,  patting  him  on  the 


The  Grasshopper  127 

shoulder,  unable  to  believe  that  he  would  never  wake 
again.      "Dymov!     Dymov!" 

In  the  drawing-room  Korostelev  was  saying  to  the 
housemaid: 

"  Why  keep  asking?  Go  to  the  church  beadle 
and  enquire  where  they  live.  They'll  wash  the  body 
and  lay  it  out,  and  do  everything  that  is  necessary." 


* 


A  DREARY  STORY 


A  DREARY  STORY 

FROM   THE    NOTEBOOK    OF    AN    OLD    MAN 

I 

There  is  in  Russia  an  emeritus  Professor  Nikolay 
Stepanovitch,  a  chevalier  and  privy  councillor;  he 
has  so  many  Russian  and  foreign  decorations  that 
when  he  has  occasion  to  put  them  on  the  students 
nickname  him  "  The  Ikonstand."  His  acquaint- 
ances are  of  the  most  aristocratic;  for  the  last 
twenty-five  or  thirty  years,  at  any  rate,  there  has  not 
been  one  single  distinguished  man  of  learning  in 
Russia  with  whom  he  has  not  been  intimately  ac- 
quainted. There  is  no  one  for  him  to  make  friends 
with  nowadays;  but  if  we  turn  to  the  past,  the  long 
list  of  his  famous  friends  winds  up  with  such  names 
as  Pirogov,  Kavelin,  and  the  poet  Nekrasov,  all  of 
whom  bestowed  upon  him  a  warm  and  sincere  affec- 
tion. He  is  a  member  of  all  the  Russian  and  of 
three  foreign  universities.  And  so  on,  and  so  on. 
All  that  and  a  great  deal  more  that  might  be  said 
makes  up  what  is  called  my  "  name." 

That  is  my  name  as  known  to  the  public.  In 
Russia  it  is  known  to  every  educated  man,  and 
abroad  it  is  mentioned  in  the  lecture-room  with  the 
addition  "  honoured  and  distinguished."  It  is  one 
of  those  fortunate  names  to  abuse  which  or  to  take 

131 


132  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

which  in  vain,  in  public  or  in  print,  is  considered  a 
sign  of  bad  taste.  And  that  is  as  it  should  be.  You 
see,  my  name  is  closely  associated  with  the  concep- 
tion of  a  highly  distinguished  man  of  great  gifts  and 
unquestionable  usefulness.  I  have  the  industry  and 
power  of  endurance  of  a  camel,  and  that  is  impor- 
tant, and  I  have  talent,  which  is  even  more  impor- 
tant. Moreover,  while  I  am  on  this  subject,  I  am 
a  well-educated,  modest,  and  honest  fellow.  I  have 
never  poked  my  nose  into  literature  or  politics;  I 
have  never  sought  popularity  in  polemics  with  the 
ignorant;  I  have  never  made  speeches  either  at  pub- 
lic dinners  or  at  the  funerals  of  my  friends.  ...  In 
fact,  there  is  no  slur  on  my  learned  name,  and  there 
is  no  complaint  one  can  make  against  it.  It  is  for- 
tunate. 

The  bearer  of  that  name,  that  is  I,  see  myself 
as  a  man  of  sixty-two,  with  a  bald  head,  with  false 
teeth,  and  with  an  incurable  tic  douloureux.  I  am 
myself  as  dingy  and  unsightly  as  my  name  is  brilliant 
and  splendid.  My  head  and  my  hands  tremble  with 
weakness;  my  neck,  as  Turgenev  says  of  one  of  his 
heroines,  is  like  the  handle  of  a  double  bass;  my 
chest  is  hollow;  my  shoulders  narrow;  when  I  talk 
or  lecture,  my  mouth  turns  down  at  one  corner; 
when  I  smile,  my  whole  face  is  covered  with  aged- 
looking,  deathly  wrinkles.  There  is  nothing  impres- 
sive about  my  pitiful  figure;  only,  perhaps,  when  I 
have  an  attack  of  tic  douloureux  my  face  wears  a 
peculiar  expression,  the  sight  of  which  must  have 
roused  in  every  one  the  grim  and  impressive  thought, 
"  Evidently  that  man  will  soon  die." 


A  Dreary  Story  133 

I  still,  as  in  the  past,  lecture  fairly  well;  I  can 
still,  as  in  the  past,  hold  the  attention  of  my  listeners 
for  a  couple  of  hours.  My  fervour,  the  literary  skill 
of  my  exposition,  and  my  humour,  almost  efface  the 
defects  of  my  voice,  though  it  is  harsh,  dry,  and 
monotonous  as  a  praying  beggar's.  I  write  poorly. 
That  bit  of  my  brain  which  presides  over  the  faculty 
of  authorship  refuses  to  work.  My  memory  has 
grown  weak;  there  is  a  lack  of  sequence  in  my  ideas, 
and  when  I  put  them  on  paper  it  always  seems  to  me 
that  I  have  lost  the  instinct  for  their  organic  connec- 
tion; my  construction  is  monotonous;  my  language 
is  poor  and  timid.  Often  I  write  what  I  do  not 
mean;  I  have  forgotten  the  beginning  when  I  am 
writing  the  end.  Often  I  forget  ordinary  words, 
and  I  always  have  to  waste  a  great  deal  of  energy 
in  avoiding  superfluous  phrases  and  unnecessary 
parentheses  in  my  letters,  both  unmistakable  proofs 
of  a  decline  in  mental  activity.  And  it  is  notewor- 
thy that  the  simpler  the  letter  the  more  painful  the 
effort  to  write  it.  At  a  scientific  article  I  feel  far 
more  intelligent  and  at  ease  than  at  a  letter  of  con- 
gratulation or  a  minute  of  proceedings.  Another 
point:  I  find  it  easier  to  write  German  or  English 
than  to  write  Russian. 

As  regards  my  present  manner  of  life,  I  must 
give  a  foremost  place  to  the  insomnia  from  which 
I  have  suffered  of  late.  If  I  were  asked  what  con- 
stituted the  chief  and  fundamental  feature  of  my 
existence  now,  I  should  answer,  Insomnia.  As  in 
the  past,  from  habit  I  undress  and  go  to  bed  exactly 
at  midnight.     I  fall  asleep  quickly,  but  before  two 


134  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

o'clock  I  wake  up  and  feel  as  though  I  had  not  slept 
at  all.  Sometimes  I  get  out  of  bed  and  light  a  lamp. 
For  an  hour  or  two  I  walk  up  and  down  the  room 
looking  at  the  familiar  photographs  and  pictures. 
When  I  am  weary  of  walking  about,  I  sit  down  to 
my  table.  I  sit  motionless,  thinking  of  nothing, 
conscious  of  no  inclination;  if  a  book  is  lying  before 
me,  I  mechanically  move  it  closer  and  read  it  without 
any  interest  —  in  that  way  not  long  ago  I  mechani- 
cally read  through  in  one  night  a  whole  novel,  with 
the  strange  title  "  The  Song  the  Lark  was  Singing"; 
or  to  occupy  my  attention  I  force  myself  to  count 
to  a  thousand;  or  I  imagine  the  face  of  one  of  my 
colleagues  and  begin  trying  to  remember  in  what 
year  and  under  what  circumstances  he  entered  the 
service.  I  like  listening  to  sounds.  Two  rooms 
away  from  me  my  daughter  Liza  says  something 
rapidly  in  her  sleep,  or  my  wife  crosses  the  drawing- 
room  with  a  candle  and  invariably  drops  the  match- 
box; or  a  warped  cupboard  creaks;  or  the  burner  of 
the  lamp  suddenly  begins  to  hum  —  and  all  these 
sounds,  for  some  reason,  excite  me. 

To  lie  awake  at  night  means  to  be  at  every  mo- 
ment conscious  of  being  abnormal,  and  so  I  look 
forward  with  impatience  to  the  morning  and  the 
day  when  I  have  a  right  to  be  awake.  Many  weari- 
some hours  pass  before  the  cock  crows  in  the  yard. 
He  is  my  first  bringer  of  good  tidings.  As  soon  as 
he  crows  T  know  that  within  an  hour  the  porter  will 
wake  up  below,  and,  coughing  angrily,  will  go  up- 
stairs to  fetch  something.     And  then  a  pale  light 


A  Dreary  Story  13  £ 

will  begin  gradually  glimmering  at  the  windows, 
voices  will  sound  in  the  street.   .  .  . 

The  day  begins  for  me  with  the  entrance  of  my 
wife.  She  comes  in  to  me  in  her  petticoat,  before 
she  has  done  her  hair,  but  after  she  has  washed, 
smelling  of  flower-scented  eau-de-Cologne,  looking 
as  though  she  had  come  in  by  chance.  Every  time 
she  says  exactly  the  same  thing:  "Excuse  me,  I 
have  just  come  in  for  a  minute.  .  .  .  Have  you  had 
a  bad  night  again?  " 

Then  she  puts  out  the  lamp,  sits  down  near  the 
table,  and  begins  talking.  I  am  no  prophet,  but 
I  know  what  she  will  talk  about.  Every  morning 
it  is  exactly  the  same  thing.  Usually,  after  anxious 
inquiries  concerning  my  health,  she  suddenly  men- 
tions our  son  who  is  an  officer  serving  at  Warsaw. 
After  the  twentieth  of  each  month  we  send  him  fifty 
roubles,  and  that  serves  as  the  chief  topic  of  our 
conversation. 

"  Of  course  it  is  difficult  for  us,"  my  wife  would 
sigh,  "  but  until  he  is  completely  on  his  own  feet  it  is 
our  duty  to  help  him.  The  boy  is  among  strangers, 
his  pay  is  small.  .  .  .  However,  if  you  like,  next 
month  we  won't  send  him  fifty,  but  forty.  What 
do  you  think?  " 

Daily  experience  might  have  taught  my  wife  that 
constantly  talking  of  our  expenses  does  not  reduce 
them,  but  my  wife  refuses  to  learn  by  experience, 
and  regularly  every  morning  discusses  our  officer 
son,  and  tells  me  that  bread,  thank  God,  is  cheaper, 
while  sugar  is  a  halfpenny  dearer  —  with  a  tone  and 


136  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

an  air  as  though  she  were  communicating  interesting 
news. 

I  listen,  mechanically  assent,  and  probably  be- 
cause I  have  had  a  bad  night,  strange  and  inappro- 
priate thoughts  intrude  themselves  upon  me.  I 
gaze  at  my  wife  and  wonder  like  a  child.  I  ask 
myself  in  perplexity,  is  it  possible  that  this  old,  very 
stout,  ungainly  woman,  with  her  dull  expression  of 
petty  anxiety  and  alarm  about  daily  bread,  with  eyes 
dimmed  by  continual  brooding  over  debts  and  money 
difficulties,  who  can  talk  of  nothing  but  expenses  and 
who  smiles  at  nothing  but  things  getting  cheaper  — 
is  it  possible  that  this  woman  is  no  other  than  the 
slender  Varya  whom  I  fell  in  love  with  so  passion- 
ately for  her  fine,  clear  intelligence,  for  her  pure 
soul,  her  beauty,  and,  as  Othello  his  Desdemona, 
for  her  "sympathy"  for  my  studies?  Could  that 
woman  be  no  other  than  the  Varya  who  had  once 
borne  me  a  son? 

I  look  with  strained  attention  into  the  face  of  this 
flabby,  spiritless,  clumsy  old  woman,  seeking  in  her 
my  Varya,  but  of  her  past  self  nothing  is  left  but 
her  anxiety  over  my  health  and  her  manner  of  call- 
ing my  salary  "  our  salary,"  and  my  cap  "  our  cap." 
It  is  painful  for  me  to  look  at  her,  and,  to  give  her 
what  little  comfort  I  can,  I  let  her  say  what  she  likes, 
and  say  nothing  even  when  she  passes  unjust  criti- 
cisms on  other  people  or  pitches  into  me  for  not  hav- 
ing a  private  practice  or  not  publishing  text-books. 

Our  conversation  always  ends  in  the  same  way. 
My  wife  suddenly  remembers  with  dismay  that  I 
have  not  had  my  tea. 


A  Dreary  Story  137 

"What  am  I  thinking  about,  sitting  here?"  she 
says,  getting  up.  "  The  samovar  has  been  on  the 
table  ever  so  long,  and  here  I  stay  gossiping.  My 
goodness!  how  forgetful  I  am  growing!  " 

She  goes  out  quickly,  and  stops  in  the  doorway 
to  say: 

"  We  owe  Yegor  five  months'  wages.  Did  you 
know  it?  You  mustn't  let  the  servants'  wages  run 
on ;  how  many  times  I  have  said  it !  It's  much  easier 
to  pay  ten  roubles  a  month  than  fifty  roubles  every 
five  months !  " 

As  she  goes  out,  she  stops  to  say: 

"  The  person  I  am  sorriest  for  is  our  Liza.  The 
girl  studies  at  the  Conservatoire,  always  mixes  with 
people  of  good  position,  and  goodness  knows  how 
she  is  dressed.  Her  fur  coat  is  in  such  a  state  she 
is  ashamed  to  show  herself  in  the  street.  If  she 
were  somebody  else's  daughter  it  wouldn't  matter, 
but  of  course  every  one  knows  that  her  father  is  a 
distinguished  professoi,  a  privy  councillor." 

And  having  reproached  me  with  my  rank  and 
reputation,  she  goes  away  at  last.  That  is  how 
my  day  begins.  It  does  not  improve  as  it  goes 
on. 

As  I  am  drinking  my  tea,  my  Liza  comes  in  wear- 
ing her  fur  coat  and  her  cap,  with  her  music  in  her 
hand,  already  quite  ready  to  go  to  the  Conserva- 
toire. She  is  two-and-twenty.  She  looks  younger, 
is  pretty,  and  rather  like  my  wife  in  her  young  days. 
She  kisses  me  tenderly  on  my  forehead  and  on  my 
hand,  and  says: 

"  Good-morning,  papa;  are  you  quite  well?  " 


138  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

As  a  child  she  was  very  fond  of  ice-cream,  and 
I  used  often  to  take  her  to  a  confectioner's.  Ice- 
cream was  for  her  the  type  of  everything  delightful. 
If  she  wanted  to  praise  me  she  would  say:  "  You 
are  as  nice  as  cream,  papa."  We  used  to  call  one 
of  her  little  fingers  "  pistachio  ice,"  the  next,  "  cream 
ice,"  the  third  "  raspberry,"  and  so  on.  Usually 
when  she  came  in  to  say  good-morning  to  me  I  used 
to  sit  her  on  my  knee,  kiss  her  little  fingers,  and 
say: 

"  Creamy  ice  .  .  .  pistachio  .  .  .  lemon.  .  .  ." 
And  now,  from  old  habit,  I  kiss  Liza's  fingers  and 
mutter:  "Pistachio  .  .  .  cream  .  .  .  lemon  .  .  ." 
but  the  effect  is  utterly  different.  I  am  cold  as  ice 
and  I  am  ashamed.  When  my  daughter  comes  in 
to  me  and  touches  my  forehead  with  her  lips  I  start 
as  though  a  bee  had  stung  me  on  the  head,  give  a 
forced  smile,  and  turn  my  face  away.  Ever  since 
I  have  been  suffering  from  sleeplessness,  a  question 
sticks  in  my  brain  like  a  nail.  My  daughter  often 
sees  me,  an  old  man  and  a  distinguished  man,  blush 
painfully  at  being  in  debt  to  my  footman;  she  sees 
how  often  anxiety  over  petty  debts  forces  me  to  lay 
aside  my  work  and  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room 
for  hours  together,  thinking;  but  why  is  it  she  never 
comes  to  me  in  secret  to  whisper  in  my  ear:  "  Fa- 
ther, here  is  my  watch,  here  are  my  bracelets,  my 
earrings,  my  dresses.  .  .  .  Pawn  them  all ;  you  want 
money  .  .  ."?  How  is  it  that,  seeing  how  her 
mother  and  I  are  placed  in  a  false  position  and  do 
our  utmost  to  hide  our  poverty  from  people,  she 
does  not  give  up  her  expensive  pleasure  of  music 


A  Dreary  Story  139 

lessons?  I  would  not  accept  her  watch  nor  her 
bracelets,  nor  the  sacrifice  of  her  lessons  —  God  for- 
bid !     That  isn't  what  I  want. 

I  think  at  the  same  time  of  my  son,  the  officer  at 
Warsaw.  He  is  a  clever,  honest,  and  sober  fellow. 
But  that  is  not  enough  for  me.  I  think  if  I  had  an 
old  father,  and  if  I  knew  there  were  moments  when 
he  was  put  to  shame  by  his  poverty,  I  should  give 
up  my  officer's  commission  to  somebody  else,  and 
should  go  out  to  earn  my  living  as  a  workman. 
Such  thoughts  about  my  children  poison  me.  What 
is  the  use  of  them?  It  is  only  a  narrow-minded  or 
embittered  man  who  can  harbour  evil  thoughts  about 
ordinary  people  because  they  are  not  heroes.  But 
enought  of  that! 

At  a  quarter  to  ten  I  have  to  go  and  give  a  lecture 
to  my  dear  boys.  I  dress  and  walk  along  the  road 
which  I  have  known  for  thirty  years,  and  which  has 
its  history  for  me.  Here  is  the  big  grey  house  with 
the  chemist's  shop;  at  this  point  there  used  to  stand 
a  little  house,  and  in  it  was  a  beershop;  in  that  beer- 
shop  I  thought  out  my  thesis  and  wrote  my  first  love- 
letter  to  Varya.  I  wrote  it  in  pencil,  on  a  page 
headed  "  Historia  morbi."  Here  there  is  a  grocer's 
shop;  at  one  time  it  was  kept  by  a  little  Jew,  who 
sold  me  cigarettes  on  credit;  then  by  a  fat  peasant 
woman,  who  liked  the  students  because  "  every  one 
of  them  has  a  mother";  now  there  is  a  red-haired 
shopkeeper  sitting  in  it,  a  very  stolid  man  who  drinks 
tea  from  a  copper  teapot.  And  here  are  the  gloomy 
gates  of  the  University,  which  have  long  needed  do- 
ing up;  I  see  the  bored  porter  in  his  sheep-skin,  the 


140  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

broom,  the  drifts  of  snow.  ...  On  a  boy  coming 
fresh  from  the  provinces  and  imagining  that  the 
temple  of  science  must  really  be  a  temple,  such  gates 
cannot  make  a  healthy  impression.  Altogether  the 
dilapidated  condition  of  the  University  buildings,  the 
gloominess  of  the  corridors,  the  griminess  of  the 
walls,  the  lack  of  light,  the  dejected  aspect  of  the 
steps,  the  hat-stands  and  the  benches,  take  a  promi- 
nent position  among  predisposing  causes  in  the  his- 
tory of  Russian  pessimism.  .  .  .  Here  is  our  gar- 
den ...  I  fancy  it  has  grown  neither  better  nor 
worse  since  I  was  a  student.  I  don't  like  it.  It 
would  be  far  more  sensible  if  there  were  tall  pines 
and  fine  oaks  growing  here  instead  of  sickly-looking 
lime-trees,  yellow  acacias,  and  skimpy  pollard  lilacs. 
The  student  whose  state  of  mind  is  in  the  majority 
of  cases  created  by  his  surroundings,  ought  in  the 
place  where  he  is  studying  to  see  facing  him  at  every 
turn  nothing  but  what  is  lofty,  strong  and  elegant. 
.  .  .  God  preserve  him  from  gaunt  trees,  broken 
windows,  grey  walls,  and  doors  covered  with  torn 
American  leather! 

When  I  go  to  my  own  entrance  the  door  is  flung 
wide  open,  and  I  am  met  by  my  colleague,  contem- 
porary, and  namesake,  the  porter  Nikolay.  As  he 
lets  me  in  he  clears  his  throat  and  says: 

"  A  frost,  your  Excellency!  " 

Or,  if  my  great-coat  is  wet: 

"  Rain,  your  Excellency!  " 

Then  he  runs  on  ahead  of  me  and  opens  all  the 
doors  on  my  way.  In  my  study  he  carefully  takes 
off  my  fur  coat,  and  while  doing  so  manages  to  tell 


A  Dreary  Story  141 

me  some  bit  of  University  news.  Thanks  to  the 
close  intimacy  existing  between  all  the  University 
porters  and  beadles,  he  knows  everything  that  goes 
on  in  the  four  faculties,  in  the  office,  in  the  rector's 
private  room,  in  the  library.  What  does  he  not 
know?  When  in  an  evil  day  a  rector  or  dean,  for 
instance,  retires,  I  hear  him  in  conversation  with  the 
young  porters  mention  the  candidates  for  the  post, 
explain  that  such  a  one  would  not  be  confirmed  by 
the  minister,  that  another  would  himself  refuse  to 
accept  it,  then  drop  into  fantastic  details  concerning 
mysterious  papers  received  in  the  office,  secret  con- 
versations alleged  to  have  taken  place  between  the 
minister  and  the  trustee,  and  so  on.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  these  details,  he  almost  always  turns  out 
to  be  right.  His  estimates  of  the  candidates, 
though  original,  are  very  correct,  too.  If  one  wants 
to  know  in  what  year  some  one  read  his  thesis,  en- 
tered the  service,  retired,  or  died,  then  summon  to 
your  assistance  the  vast  memory  of  that  soldier,  and 
he  will  not  only  tell  you  the  year,  the  month  and  the 
day,  but  will  furnish  you  also  with  the  details  that 
accompanied  this  or  that  event.  Only  one  who  loves 
can  remember  like  that. 

He  is  the  guardian  of  the  University  traditions. 
From  the  porters  who  were  his  predecessors  he  has 
inherited  many  legends  of  University  life,  has  added 
to  that  wealth  much  of  his  own  gained  during  his 
time  of  service,  and  if  you  care  to  hear  he  will  tell 
you  many  long  and  intimate  stories.  He  can  tell 
one  about  extraordinary  sages  who  knew  everything, 
about  remarkable  students  who  did  not  sleep  for 


142  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

weeks,  about  numerous  martyrs  and  victims  of  sci- 
ence; with  him  good  triumphs  over  evil,  the  weak 
always  vanquishes  the  strong,  the  wise  man  the  fool, 
the  humble  the  proud,  the  young  the  old.  There  is 
no  need  to  take  all  these  fables  and  legends  for 
sterling  coin;  but  filter  them,  and  you  will  have  left 
what  is  wanted:  our  fine  traditions  and  the  names  of 
real  heroes,  recognized  as  such  by  all. 

In  our  society  the  knowledge  of  the  learned  world 
consists  of  anecdotes  of  the  extraordinary  absent- 
mindedness  of  certain  old  professors,  and  two  or 
three  witticisms  variously  ascribed  to  Gruber,  to  me, 
and  to  Babukin.  For  the  educated  public  that  is  not 
much.  If  it  loved  science,  learned  men,  and  stu- 
dents, as  Nikolay  does,  its  literature  would  long  ago 
have  contained  whole  epics,  records  of  sayings  and 
doings  such  as,  unfortunately,  it  cannot  boast  of  now. 

After  telling  me  a  piece  of  news,  Nikolay  assumes 
a  severe  expression,  and  conversation  about  busi- 
ness begins.  If  any  outsider  could  at  such  times 
overhear  Nikolay' s  free  use  of  our  terminology,  he 
might  perhaps  imagine  that  he  was  a  learned  man 
disguised  as  a  soldier.  And,  by  the  way,  the  ru- 
mours of  the  erudition  of  the  University  porters  are 
greatly  exaggerated.  It  is  true  that  Nikolay  knows 
more  than  a  hundred  Latin  words,  knows  how  to 
put  the  skeleton  together,  sometimes  prepares  the 
apparatus  and  amuses  the  students  by  some  long, 
learned  quotation,  but  the  by  no  means  complicated 
theory  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  for  instance, 
is  as  much  a  mystery  to  him  now  as  it  was  twenty 
years  ago. 


A  Dreary  Story  143 

At  the  table  in  my  study,  bending  low  over  some 
book  or  preparation,  sits  Pyotr  Ignatyevitch,  my 
demonstrator,  a  modest  and  industrious  but  by  no 
means  clever  man  of  five-and-thirty,  already  bald 
and  corpulent;  he  works  from  morning  to  night, 
reads  a  lot,  remembers  well  everything  he  has  read 
—  and  in  that  way  he  is  not  a  man,  but  pure  gold; 
in  all  else  he  is  a  carthorse  or,  in  other  words,  a 
learned  dullard.  The  carthorse  characteristics  that 
show  his  lack  of  talent  are  these :  his  outlook  is 
narrow  and  sharply  limited  by  his  specialty;  outside 
his  special  branch  he  is  simple  as  a  child. 

"  Fancy!  what  a  misfortune!  They  say  Skobelev 
is  dead." 

Nikolay  crosses  himself,  but  Pyotr  Ignatyevitch 
turns  to  me  and  asks: 

"What  Skobelev  is  that?" 

Another  time  —  somewhat  earlier  —  I  told  him 
that  Professor  Perov  was  dead.  Good  Pyotr  Ig- 
natyevitch asked: 

11  What  did  he  lecture  on?  " 

I  believe  if  Patti  had  sung  in  his  very  ear,  if  a 
horde  of  Chinese  had  invaded  Russia,  if  there  had 
been  an  earthquake,  he  would  not  have  stirred  a 
limb,  but  screwing  up  his  eye,  would  have  gone  on 
calmly  looking  through  his  microscope.  What  is  he 
to  Hecuba  or  Hecuba  to  him,  in  fact?  I  would  give 
a  good  deal  to  see  how  this  dry  stick  sleeps  with  his 
wife  at  night. 

Another  characteristic  is  his  fanatical  faith  in  the 
infallibility  of  science,  and,  above  all,  of  everything 
written  by  the  Germans.     He  believes  in  himself,  in 


144  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

his  preparations;  knows  the  object  of  life,  and  knows 
nothing  of  the  doubts  and  disappointments  that  turn 
the  hair  of  talent  grey.  He  has  a  slavish  reverence 
for  authorities  and  a  complete  lack  of  any  desire  for 
independent  thought.  To  change  his  convictions  is 
difficult,  to  argue  with  him  impossible.  How  is  one 
to  argue  with  a  man  who  is  firmly  persuaded  that 
medicine  is  the  finest  of  sciences,  that  doctors  are  the 
best  of  men,  and  that  the  traditions  of  the  medical 
profession  are  superior  to  those  of  any  other?  Of 
the  evil  past  of  medicine  only  one  tradition  has  been 
preserved  —  the  white  tie  still  worn  by  doctors;  for 
a  learned  —  in  fact,  for  any  educated  man  the  only 
traditions  that  can  exist  are  those  of  the  University 
as  a  whole,  with  no  distinction  between  medicine, 
law,  etc.  But  it  would  be  hard  for  Pyotr  Ignatye- 
vitch  to  accept  these  facts,  and  he  is  ready  to  argue 
with  you  till  the  day  of  judgment. 

I  have  a  clear  picture  in  my  mind  of  his  future. 
In  the  course  of  his  life  he  will  prepare  many  hun- 
dreds of  chemicals  of  exceptional  purity;  he  will 
write  a  number  of  dry  and  very  accurate  memo- 
randa, will  make  some  dozen  conscientious  transla- 
tions, but  he  won't  do  anything  striking.  To  do 
that  one  must  have  imagination,  inventiveness,  the 
gift  of  insight,  and  Pyotr  Ignatyevitch  has  nothing 
of  the  kind.  In  short,  he  is  not  a  master  in  science, 
but  a  journeyman. 

Pyotr  Ignatyevitch,  Nikolay,  and  I,  talk  in  sub- 
dued tones.  We  are  not  quite  ourselves.  There  is 
always  a  peculiar  feeling  when  one  hears  through 
the  doors  a  murmur  as  of  the  sea  from  the  lecture- 


A  Dreary  Story  145 

theatre.  In  the  course  of  thirty  years  I  have  not 
grown  accustomed  to  this  feeling,  and  I  experience 
it  every  morning.  I  nervously  button  up  my  coat, 
ask  Nikolay  unnecessary  questions,  lose  my  temper. 
...  It  is  just  as  though  I  were  frightened;  it  is  not 
timidity,  though,  but  something  different  which  I  can 
neither  describe  nor  find  a  name  for. 

Quite  unnecessarily,  I  look  at  my  watch  and  say: 
"  Well,  it's  time  to  go  in." 

And  we  march  into  the  room  in  the  following 
order:  foremost  goes  Nikolay,  with  the  chemicals 
and  apparatus  or  with  a  chart;  after  him  I  come; 
and  then  the  carthorse  follows  humbly,  with  hanging 
head;  or,  when  necessary,  a  dead  body  is  carried  in 
first  on  a  stretcher,  followed  by  Nikolay,  and  so  on. 
On  my  entrance  the  students  all  stand  up,  then  they 
sit  down,  and  the  sound  as  of  the  sea  is  suddenly 
hushed.     Stillness  reigns. 

I  know  what  I  am  going  to  lecture  about,  but  I 
don't  know  how  I  am  going  to  lecture,  where  I  am 
going  to  begin  or  with  what  I  am  going  to  end. 
I  haven't  a  single  sentence  ready  in  my  head.  But 
I  have  only  to  look  round  the  lecture-hall  (it  is 
built  in  the  form  of  an  amphitheatre)  and  utter 
the  stereotyped  phrase,  "  Last  lecture  we  stopped 
at  .  .  ."  when  sentences  spring  up  from  my  soul  in 
a  long  string,  and  I  am  carried  away  by  my  own 
eloquence.  I  speak  with  irresistible  rapidity  and 
passion,  and  it  seems  as  though  there  were  no  force 
which  could  check  the  flow  of  my  words.  To  lec- 
ture well  —  that  is,  with  profit  to  the  listeners  and 
without  boring  them  —  one  must  have,  besides  tal- 


146  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

ent,  experience  and  a  special  knack;  one  must  possess 
a  clear  conception  of  one's  own  powers,  of  the  audi- 
ence to  which  one  is  lecturing,  and  of  the  subject  of 
one's  lecture.  Moreover,  one  must  be  a  man  who 
knows  what  he  is  doing;  one  must  keep  a  sharp  look- 
out, and  not  for  one  second  lose  sight  of  what  lies 
before  one. 

A  good  conductor,  interpreting  the  thought  of 
the  composer,  does  twenty  things  at  once :  reads  the 
score,  waves  his  baton,  watches  the  singer,  makes 
a  motion  sideways,  first  to  the  drum  then  to  the 
wind-instruments,  and  so  on.  I  do  just  the  same 
when  I  lecture.  Before  me  a  hundred  and  fifty 
faces,  all  unlike  one  another;  three  hundred  eyes  all 
looking  straight  into  my  face.  My  object  is  to 
dominate  this  many-headed  monster.  If  every  mo- 
ment as  I  lecture  I  have  a  clear  vision  of  the  degree 
of  its  attention  and  its  power  of  comprehension,  it 
is  in  my  power.  The  other  foe  I  have  to  overcome 
is  in  myself.  It  is  the  infinite  variety  of  forms, 
phenomena,  laws,  and  the  multitude  of  ideas  of  my 
own  and  other  people's  conditioned  by  them.  Every 
moment  I  must  have  the  skill  to  snatch  out  of  that 
vast  mass  of  material  what  is  most  important  and 
necessary,  and,  as  rapidly  as  my  words  flow,  clothe 
my  thought  in  a  form  in  which  it  can  be  grasped  by 
the  monster's  intelligence,  and  may  arouse  its  atten- 
tion, and  at  the  same  time  one  must  keep  a  sharp 
lookout  that  one's  thoughts  are  conveyed,  not  just  as 
they  come,  but  in  a  certain  order,  essential  for  the 
correct  composition  of  the  picture  I  wish  to  sketch. 
Further,  I  endeavour  to  make  my  diction  literary, 


A  Dreary  Story  147 

my  definitions  brief  and  precise,  my  wording,  as  far 
as  possible,  simple  and  eloquent.  Every  minute  I 
have  to  pull  myself  up  and  remember  that  I  have 
only  an  hour  and  forty  minutes  at  my  disposal.  In 
short,  one  has  one's  work  cut  out.  At  one  and  the 
same  minute  one  has  to  play  the  part  of  savant  and 
teacher  and  orator,  and  it's  a  bad  thing  if  the  orator 
gets  the  upper  hand  of  the  savant  or  of  the  teacher 
in  one,  or  vice  versa. 

You  lecture  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  for  half  an 
hour,  when  you  notice  that  the  students  are  beginning 
to  look  at  the  ceiling,  at  Pyotr  Ignatyevitch;  one  is 
feeling  for  his  handkerchief,  another  shifts  in  his 
seat,  another  smiles  at  his  thoughts.  .  .  .  That 
means  that  their  attention  is  flagging.  Something 
must  be  done.  Taking  advantage  of  the  first  oppor- 
tunity, I  make  some  pun.  A  broad  prin  comes  on  to 
a  hundred  and  fifty  faces,  the  eyes  shine  brightly,  the 
sound  of  the  sea  is  audible  for  a  brief  moment.  .  .  . 
I  laugh  too.  Their  attention  is  refreshed,  and  I  can 
go  on. 

No  kind  of  sport,  no  kind  of  game  or  diversion, 
has  ever  given  me  such  enjoyment  as  lecturing:. 
Only  at  lectures  have  I  been  able  to  abandon  mvself 
entirely  to  passion,  and  have  understood  that  inspira- 
tion is  not  an  invention  of  the  poets,  but  exists  in  real 
life,  and  I  imagine  Hercules  after  the  most  piquant 
of  his  exploits  felt  just  such  voluptuous  exhaustion  as 
I  experience  after  every  lecture. 

That  was  in  old  times.  Now  at  lectures  T  feel 
nothing  but  torture.  Before  half  an  hour  is  over  I 
am  conscious  of  an  overwhelming  weakness  in  my 


148  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

legs  and  my  shoulders.  I  sit  down  in  my  chair,  but 
I  am  not  accustomed  to  lecture  sitting  down;  a  minute 
later  I  get  up  and  go  on  standing,  then  sit  down 
again.  There  is  a  dryness  in  my  mouth,  my  voice 
grows  husky,  my  head  begins  to  go  round.  .  .  .  To 
conceal  my  condition  from  my  audience  I  continually 
drink  water,  cough,  often  blow  my  nose  as  though  I 
were  hindered  by  a  cold,  make  puns  inappropriately, 
and  in  the  end  break  off  earlier  than  I  ought  to.  But 
above  all  I  am  ashamed. 

My  conscience  and  my  intelligence  tell  me  that 
the  very  best  thing  I  could  do  now  would  be  to  de- 
liver a  farewell  lecture  to  the  boys,  to  say  my  last 
word  to  them,  to  bless  them,  and  give  up  my  post  to 
a  man  younger  and  stronger  than  me.  But,  God, 
be  my  judge,  I  have  not  manly  courage  enough  to  act 
according  to  my  conscience. 

Unfortunately,  I  am  not  a  philosopher  and  not  a 
theologian.  I  know  perfectly  well  that  I  cannot 
live  more  than  another  six  months;  it  might  be  sup- 
posed that  I  ought  now  to  be  chiefly  concerned  with 
the  question  of  the  shadowy  life  beyond  the  grave, 
and  the  visions  that  will  visit  my  slumbers  in  the 
tomb.  But  for  some  reason  my  soul  refuses  to 
recognize  these  questions,  though  my  mind  is  fully 
alive  to  their  importance.  Just  as  twenty,  thirty 
years  ago,  so  now,  on  the  threshold  of  death,  T  am 
interested  in  nothing  but  science.  As  I  yield  up  my 
last  breath  I  shall  still  believe  that  science  is  the 
most  important,  the  most  splendid,  the  most  essential 
thing  in  the  life  of  man;  that  it  always  has  been  and 


A  Dreary  Story  149 

will  be  the  highest  manifestation  of  love,  and  that 
only  by  means  of  it  will  man  conquer  himself  and 
nature.  This  faith  is  perhaps  naive  and  may  rest 
on  false  assumptions,  but  it  is  not  my  fault  that  I  be- 
lieve that  and  nothing  else;  I  cannot  overcome  in 
myself  this  belief. 

But  that  is  not  the  point.  I  only  ask  people  to  be 
indulgent  to  my  weakness,  and  to  realize  that  to  tear 
from  the  lecture-theatre  and  his  pupils  a  man  who  is 
more  interested  in  the  history  of  the  development  of 
the  bone  medulla  than  in  the  final  object  of  creation 
would  be  equivalent  to  taking  him  and  nailing  him  up 
in  his  coffin  without  waiting  for  him  to  be  dead. 

Sleeplessness  and  the  consequent  strain  of  com- 
bating   increasing    weakness    leads    to    something 
strange  in  me.     In  the  middle  of  my  lecture  tears 
suddenly  rise  in  my  throat,  my  eyes  begin  to  smart, 
and  I  feel  a  passionate,  hysterical  desire  to  stretch 
out  my  hands  before  me  and  break  into  loud  lamenta- 
tion.     I  want  to  cry  out  in  a  loud  voice  that  I,  a  fa- 
mous man,  have  been  sentenced  by  fate  to  the  death 
penalty,  that  within  some  six  months  another  man 
will  be  in  control  here  in  the  lecture-theatre.     I  want 
to  shriek  that  I  am  poisoned;  new  ideas  such  as  I 
have  not  known  before  have  poisoned  the  last  days 
i  of  my  life,  and  are  still  stinging  my  brain  like  mos- 
I  quitoes.     And  at  that  moment  my  position  seems  to 
j  me  so  awful  that  I  want  all  my  listeners  to  be  horri- 
i  fied,  to  leap  up  from  their  seats  and  to  rush  in  panic 
I  terror,  with  desperate  screams,  to  the  exit. 
It  is  not  easy  to  get  through  such  moments. 


150  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


II 

After  my  lecture  I  sit  at  home  and  work.  I  read 
journals  and  monographs,  or  prepare  my  next  lec- 
ture; sometimes  I  write  something.  I  work  with  in- 
terruptions, as  I  have  from  time  to  time  to  see 
visitors. 

There  is  a  ring  at  the  bell.  It  is  a  colleague  come 
to  discuss  some  business  matter  with  me.  He  comes 
in  to  me  with  his  hat  and  his  stick,  and,  holding  out 
both  these  objects  to  me,  says: 

"  Only  for  a  minute !  Only  for  a  minute !  Sit 
down,  collega!     Only  a  couple  of  words." 

To  begin  with,  we  both  try  to  show  each  other 
that  we  are  extraordinarily  polite  and  highly  de- 
lighted to  see  each  other.  I  make  him  sit  down  in 
an  easy-chair,  and  he  makes  me  sit  down;  as  we  do 
so,  we  cautiously  pat  each  other  on  the  back,  touch 
each  other's  buttons,  and  it  looks  as  though  we  were 
feeling  each  other  and  afraid  of  scorching  our  fingers. 
Both  of  us  laugh,  though  we  say  nothing  amusing. 
When  we  are  seated  we  bow  our  heads  towards  each 
other  and  begin  talking  in  subdued  voices.  How- 
ever affectionately  disposed  we  may  be  to  one  an- 
other, we  cannot  help  adorning  our  conversation 
with  all  sorts  of  Chinese  mannerisms,  such  as  "  As 
you  so  justly  observed,"  or  "  I  have  already  had  the 
honour  to  inform  you  ";  we  cannot  help  laughing  if 
one  of  us  makes  a  joke,  however  unsuccessfully. 
When  we  have  finished  with  business  my  colleague 
gets  up  impulsively  and,  waving  his  hat  in  the  direc- 


A  Dreary  Story  151 

tion  of  my  work,  begins  to  say  good-bye.  Again  we 
paw  one  another  and  laugh.  I  see  him  into  the  hall; 
when  I  assist  my  colleague  to  put  on  his  coat,  while 
he  does  all  he  can  to  decline  this  high  honour.  Then 
when  Yegor  opens  the  door  my  colleague  declares 
that  I  shall  catch  cold,  while  I  make  a  show  of  being 
ready  to  go  even  into  the  street  with  him.  And 
when  at  last  I  go  back  into  my  study  my  face  still 
goes  on  smiling,  I  suppose  from  inertia. 

A  little  later  another  ring  at  the  bell.  Somebody 
comes  into  the  hall,  and  is  a  long  time  coughing  and 
taking  off  his  things.  Yegor  announces  a  student. 
I  tell  him  to  ask  him  in.  A  minute  later  a  young 
man  of  agreeable  appearance  comes  in.  For  the  last 
year  he  and  I  have  been  on  strained  relations;  he 
answers  me  disgracefully  at  the  examinations,  and  I 
mark  him  one.  Every  year  I  have  some  seven  such 
hopefuls  whom,  to  express  it  in  the  students'  slang, 
I  "  chivy  "  or  "  floor."  Those  of  them  who  fail  in 
their  examination  through  incapacity  or  illness  usu- 
ally bear  their  cross  patiently  and  do  not  haggle 
with  me;  those  who  come  to  the  house  and  haggle 
with  me  are  always  youths  of  sanguine  temperament, 
broad  natures,  whose  failure  at  examinations  spoils 
their  appetites  and  hinders  them  from  visiting  the 
opera  with  their  usual  regularity.  I  let  the  first  class 
off  easily,  but  the  second  I  chivy  through  a  whole 
year. 

"  Sit  down,"  I  say  to  my  visitor;  "  what  have  you 
to  tell  me?" 

"  Excuse  me,  professor,  for  troubling  you,"  he  be- 
gins, hesitating,  and  not  looking  me  in  the  face.     "  I 


152  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

would  not  have  ventured  to  trouble  you  if  it  had  not 
been  ...  I  have  been  up  for  your  examination  five 
times,  and  have  been  ploughed.  ...  I  beg  you,  be 
so  good  as  to  mark  me  for  a  pass,  because  .  .   ." 

The  argument  which  all  the  sluggards  bring  for- 
ward on  their  own  behalf  is  always  the  same;  they 
have  passed  well  in  all  their  subjects  and  have  only 
come  to  grief  in  mine,  and  that  is  the  more  surpris- 
ing because  they  have  always  been  particularly  in- 
terested in  my  subject  and  knew  it  so  well;  their  fail- 
ure has  always  been  entirely  owing  to  some  incom- 
prehensible misunderstanding. 

"  Excuse  me,  my  friend,"  I  say  to  the  visitor;  "  I 
cannot  mark  you  for  a  pass.  Go  and  read  up  the 
lectures  and  come  to  me  again.     Then  we  shall  see." 

A  pause.  I  feel  an  impulse  to  torment  the  student 
a  little  for  liking  beer  and  the  opera  better  than 
science,  and  I  say,  with  a  sigh: 

"  To  my  mind,  the  best  thing  you  can  do  now  is  to 
give  up  medicine  altogether.  If,  with  your  abilities, 
you  cannot  succeed  in  passing  the  examination,  it's 
evident  that  you  have  neither  the  desire  nor  the 
vocation  for  a  doctor's  calling." 

The  sanguine  youth's  face  lengthens. 

"  Excuse  me,  professor,"  he  laughs,  "  but  that 
would  be  odd  of  me,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  After 
studying  for  five  years,  all  at  once  to  give  it  up." 

"Oh,  well!  Better  to  have  lost  your  five  years 
than  have  to  spend  the  rest  of  your  life  in  doing 
work  you  do  not  care  for." 

But  at  once  I  feel  sorry  for  him,  and  I  hasten  to 
add: 


A  Dreary  Story  153 

"  However,  as  you  think  best.  And  so  read  a 
little  more  and  come  again." 

"When?  "  the  idle  youth  asks  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"  When  you  like.     Tomorrow  if  you  like." 

And  in  his  good-natured  eyes  I  read : 

"  I  can  come  all  right,  but  of  course  you  will 
plough  me  again,  you  beast!  " 

11  Of  course,"  I  say,  "  you  won't  know  more 
science  for  going  in  for  my  examination  another 
fifteen  times,  but  it  is  training  your  character,  and 
you  must  be  thankful  for  that." 

Silence  follows.  I  get  up  and  wait  for  my  visitor 
to  go,  but  he  stands  and  looks  towards  the  window, 
fingers  his  beard,  and  thinks.     It  grows  boring. 

The  sanguine  youth's  voice  is  pleasant  and  mellow, 
his  eyes  are  clever  and  Ironical,  his  face  is  genial, 
though  a  little  bloated  from  frequent  indulgence  in 
beer  and  overlong  lying  on  the  sofa;  he  looks  as 
though  he  could  tell  me  a  lot  of  interesting  things 
about  the  opera,  about  his  affairs  of  the  heart,  and 
about  comrades  whom  he  likes.  Unluckilv,  it  is  not 
the  thing  to  discuss  these  subjects,  or  else  I  should 
have  been  glad  to  listen  to  him. 

"  Professor,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  that  if 
you  mark  me  for  a  pass  I  .  .  .  I'll  .  .   ." 

As  soon  as  we  reach  the  "  word  of  honour  "  I 
wave  my  hands  and  sit  down  to  the  table.     The  stu- 
dent ponders  a  minute  longer,  and  says  dejectedly: 
11  In  that  case,  good-bye.  ...  I  beg  your  par- 
don." 

"  Good-bye,  my  friend.     Good  luck  to  you." 
He  goes  irresolutely  into  the  hall,  slowly  puts  on 


154  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

his  outdoor  things,  and,  going  out  into  the  street, 
probably  ponders  for  some  time  longer;  unable  to 
think  of  anything,  except  "  old  devil,"  inwardly  ad- 
dressed to  me,  he  goes  into  a  wretched  restaurant 
to  dine  and  drink,  beer,  and  then  home  to  bed. 
"  Peace  be  to  thy  ashes,  honest  toiler." 

A  third  ring  at  the  bell.  A  young  doctor,  in  a 
pair  of  new  black  trousers,  gold  spectacles,  and  of 
course  a  white  tie,  walks  in.  He  introduces  himself. 
I  beg  him  to  be  seated,  and  ask  what  I  can  do  for 
him.  Not  without  emotion,  the  young  devotee  of 
science  begins  telling  me  that  he  has  passed  his  ex- 
amination as  a  doctor  of  medicine,  and  that  he  has 
now  only  to  write  his  dissertation.  He  would  like 
to  work  with  me  under  my  guidance,  and  he  would 
be  greatly  obliged  to  me  if  I  would  give  him  a  subject 
for  his  dissertation. 

"  Very  glad  to  be  of  use  to  you,  colleague,"  I  say, 
"  but  just  let  us  come  to  an  understanding  as  to  the 
meaning  of  a  dissertation.  That  word  is  taken  to 
mean  a  composition  which  is  a  product  of  independ- 
ent creative  effort.  Is  that  not  so?  A  work  writ- 
ten on  another  man's  subject  and  under  another 
man's  guidance  is  called  something  different.   .   .   ." 

The  doctor  says  nothing.  I  fly  into  a  rage  and 
jump  up  from  my  seat. 

"  Why  is  it  you  all  come  to  me?  "  I  cry  angrily. 
"  Do  I  keep  a  shop?  I  don't  deal  in  subjects.  For 
the  thousand  and  oneth  time  I  ask  you  all  to  leave 
me  in  peace !  Excuse  my  brutality,  but  I  am  quite 
sick  of  it!  " 

The  doctor  remains  silent,  but  a  faint  flush  is  ap- 


A  Dreary  Story  155 

parent  on  his  cheek-bones.  His  face  expresses  a  pro- 
found reverence  for  my  fame  and  my  learning,  but 
from  his  eyes  I  can  see  he  feels  a  contempt  for  my 
voice,  my  pitiful  figure,  and  my  nervous  gesticulation. 
I  impress  him  in  my  anger  as  a  queer  fish. 

11 1  don't  keep  a  shop,"  I  go  on  angrily.  "  And 
it  is  a  strange  thing!  Why  don't  you  want  to  be 
independent?  Why  have  you  such  a  distaste  for  in- 
dependence? " 

I  say  a  great  deal,  but  he  still  remains  silent.  By 
degrees  I  calm  down,  and  of  course  give  in.  The 
doctor  gets  a  subject  from  me  for  his  theme  not 
worth  a  halfpenny,  writes  under  my  supervision  a 
dissertation  of  no  use  to  any  one,  with  dignity  de- 
fends it  in  a  dreary  discussion,  and  receives  a  degree 
of  no  use  to  him. 

The  rings  at  the  bell  may  follow  one  another  end- 
lessly, but  I  will  confine  my  description  here  to  four 
of  them.  The  bell  rings  for  the  fourth  time,  and  I 
hear  familiar  footsteps,  the  rustle  of  a  dress,  a  dear 
voice.  .  .  . 

Eighteen  years  ago  a  colleague  of  mine,  an  oculist, 
died  leaving  a  little  daughter  Katya,  a  child  of  seven, 
and  sixty  thousand  roubles.  In  his  will  he  made  me 
the  child's  guardian.  Till  she  was  ten  years  old 
Katya  lived  with  us  as  one  of  the  family,  then  she 
was  sent  to  a  boarding-school,  and  only  spent  the 
summer  holidays  with  us.  I  never  had  time  to  look 
after  her  education.  I  only  superintended  it  at 
leisure  moments,  and  so  I  can  say  very  little  about 
her  childhood. 

The  first  thing  I  remember,  and  like  so  much  in 


156  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

remembrance,  is  the  extraordinary  trustfulness  with 
which  she  came  into  our  house  and  let  herself  be 
treated  by  the  doctors,  a  trustfulness  which  was  al- 
ways shining  in  her  little  face.  She  would  sit  some- 
where out  of  the  way,  with  her  face  tied  up,  invari- 
ably watching  something  with  attention;  whether  she 
watched  me  writing  or  turning  over  the  pages  of  a 
book,  or  watched  my  wife  bustling  about,  or  the 
cook  scrubbing  a  potato  in  the  kitchen,  or  the  dog 
playing,  her  eyes  invariably  expressed  the  same 
thought  —  that  is,  "  Everything  that  is  done  in  this 
world  is  nice  and  sensible."  She  was  curious,  and 
very  fond  of  talking  to  me.  Sometimes  she  would 
sit  at  the  table  opposite  me,  watching  my  movements 
and  asking  questions.  It  interested  her  to  know 
what  I  was  reading,  what  I  did  at  the  University, 
whether  I  was  not  afraid  of  the  dead  bodies,  what 
I  did  with  my  salary. 

"Do  the  students  fight  at  the  University?"  she 
would  ask. 

"  They  do,  dear." 

"  And  do  you  make  them  go  down  on  their 
knees?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

And  she  thought  it  funny  that  the  students  fought 
and  I  made  them  go  down  on  their  knees,  and  she 
laughed.  She  was  a  gentle,  patient,  good  child.  It 
happened  not  infrequently  that  I  saw  something 
taken  away  from  her,  saw  her  punished  without  rea- 
son, or  her  curiosity  repressed;  at  such  times  a  look 
of  sadness  was  mixed  with  the  invariable  expression 
of  trustfulness  on  her  face  —  that  was  all.     I  did 


A  Dreary  Story  157 

not  know  how  to  take  her  part;  only  when  I  saw  her 
sad  I  had  an  inclination  to  draw  her  to  me  and  to 
commiserate  her  like  some  old  nurse:  "  My  poor 
little  orphan  one!  " 

I  remember,  too,  that  she  was  fond  of  fine  clothes 
and  of  sprinkling  herself  with  scent.  In  that  respect 
she  was  like  me.  I,  too,  am  fond  of  pretty  clothes 
and  nice  scent. 

I  regret  that  I  had  not  time  nor  inclination  to 
watch  over  the  rise  and  development  of  the  passion 
which  took  complete  possession  of  Katya  when  she 
was  fourteen  or  fifteen.  I  mean  her  passionate  love 
for  the  theatre.  When  she  used  to  come  from 
boarding-school  and  stay  with  us  for  the  summer 
holidays,  she  talked  of  nothing  with  such  pleasure 
and  such  warmth  as  of  plays  and  actors.  She  bored 
us  with  her  continual  talk  of  the  theatre.  My  wife 
and  children  would  not  listen  to  her.  I  was  the  only 
one  who  had  not  the  courage  to  refuse  to  attend  to 
her.  When  she  had  a  longing  to  share  her  trans- 
ports, she  used  to  come  into  my  study  and  say  in  an 
imploring  tone : 

"  Nikolay  Stepanovitch,  do  let  me  talk  to  you 
about  the  theatre  !  " 

I  pointed  to  the  clock,  and  said: 
"  I'll  give  you  half  an  hour  —  begin." 
Later  on  she  used  to  bring  with  her  dozens  of  por- 
traits of  actors  and  actresses  which  she  worshipped; 
then  she  attempted  several  times  to  take  part  in 
private  theatricals,  and  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that 
when  she  left  school  she  came  to  me  and  announced 
that  she  was  born  to  be  an  actress. 


158  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

I  had  never  shared  Katya's  inclinations  for  the 
theatre.  To  my  mind,  if  a  play  is  good  there  is  no 
need  to  trouble  the  actors  in  order  that  it  may  make 
the  right  impression;  it  is  enough  to  read  it.  If  the 
play  is  poor,  no  acting  will  make  it  good. 

In  my  youth  I  often  visited  the  theatre,  and  now 
my  family  takes  a  box  twice  a  year  and  carries  me  off 
for  a  little  distraction.  Of  course,  that  is  not  enough 
to  give  me  the  right  to  judge  of  the  theatre.  In  my 
opinion  the  theatre  has  become  no  better  than  it  was 
thirty  or  forty  years  ago.  Just  as  in  the  past,  I  can 
never  find  a  glass  of  clean  water  in  the  corridors  or 
foyers  of  the  theatre.  Just  as  in  the  past,  the  at- 
tendants fine  me  twenty  kopecks  for  my  fur  coat, 
though  there  is  nothing  reprehensible  in  wearing  a 
warm  coat  in  winter.  As  nTthe  past,  for  no  sort  of 
reason,  music  is  played  in  the  intervals,  which  adds 
something  new  and  uncalled-for  to  the  impression 
made  by  the  play.  As  in  the  past,  men  go  in  the 
intervals  and  drink  spirits  in  the  buffet.  If  no  prog- 
ress can  be  seen  in  trifles,  I  should  look  for  it  in  vain 
in  what  is  more  important.  When  an  actor  wrapped 
from  head  to  foot  in  stage  traditions  and  conventions 
tries  to  recite  a  simple  ordinary  speech,  "  To  be  or 
not  to  be,"  not  simply,  but  invariably  with  the  ac- 
companiment of  hissing  and  convulsive  movements 
all  over  his  body,  or  when  he  tries  to  convince  me  at 
all  costs  that  Tchatsky,  who  talks  so  much  with  fools 
and  is  so  fond  of  folly,  is  a  verv  clever  man,  and  that 
"  Woe  from  Wit  "  is  not  a  dull  play,  the  stage  gives 
me  the  same  feeling  of  conventionality  which  bored 
me  so  much  forty  years  ago  when  I  was  regaled  with 


A  Dreary  Story  159 

the  classical  howling  and  beating  on  the  breast. 
And  every  time  I  come  out  of  the  theatre  more  con- 
servative than  I  go  in. 

The  sentimental  and  confiding  public  may  be  per- 
suaded that  the  stage,  even  in  its  present  form,  is  a 
school ;  but  any  one  who  is  familiar  with  a  school  in 
its  true  sense  will  not  be  caught  with  that  bait.  I 
cannot  say  what  will  happen  in  fifty  or  a  hundred 
years,  but  in  its  actual  condition  the  theatre  can 
serve  only  as  an  entertainment.  But  this  entertain- 
ment is  too  costly  to  be  frequently  enjoyed.  It  robs 
the  state  of  thousands  of  healthy  and  talented  young 
men  and  women,  who,  if  they  had  not  devoted  them- 
selves to  the  theatre,  might  have  been  good  doctors, 
farmers,  schoolmistresses,  officers;  it  robs  the  public 
of  the  evening  hours  —  the  best  time  for  intellectual 
work  and  social  intercourse.  T  say  nothing  of  the 
waste  of  money  and  the  moral  damage  to  the  specta- 
tor when  he  sees  murder,  fornication,  or  false  witness 
unsuitably  treated  on  the  stage. 

Katya  was  of  an  entirely  different  opinion.  She 
assured  me  that  the  theatre,  even  in  its  present  con- 
dition, was  superior  to  the  lecture-hall,  to  books,  or 
to  anything  in  the  world.  The  stage  was  a  power 
that  united  in  itself  all  the  arts,  and  actors  were  mis- 
sionaries. No  art  nor  science  was  capable  of  pro- 
ducing so  strong  and  so  certain  an  effect  on  the  soul 
of  man  as  the  stage,  and  it  was  with  good  reason  that 
an  actor  of  medium  quality  enjoys  greater  popularity 
than  the  greatest  savant  or  artist.  And  no  sort 
of  public  service  could  provide  such  enjoyment  and 
gratification  as  the  theatre. 


160  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

And  one  fine  day  Katya  joined  a  troupe  of  actors, 
and  went  off,  I  believe  to  Ufa,  taking  away  with  her 
a  good  supply  of  money,  a  store  of  rainbow  hopes, 
and  the  most  aristocratic  views  of  her  work. 

Her  first  letters  on  the  journey  were  marvellous. 
I  read  them,  and  was  simply  amazed  that  those  small 
sheets  of  paper  could  contain  so  much  youth,  purity 
of  spirit,  holy  innocence,  and  at  the  same  time  subtle 
and  apt  judgments  which  would  have  done  credit  to 
a  fine  masculine  intellect.  It  was  more  like  a  rap- 
turous paean  of  praise  she  sent  me  than  a  mere  de- 
scription of  the  Volga,  the  country,  the  towns  she 
visited,  her  companions,  her  failures  and  successes; 
every  sentence  was  fragrant  with  that  confiding 
trustfulness  I  was  accustomed  to  read  in  her  face  — 
and  at  the  same  time  there  were  a  great  many  gram- 
matical mistakes,  and  there  was  scarcely  any  punctu- 
ation at  all. 

Before  six  months  had  passed  I  received  a  highly 
poetical  and  enthusiastic  letter  beginning  with  the 
words,  "  I  have  come  to  love  .  .  ."  This  letter  was 
accompanied  by  a  photograph  representing  a  young 
man  with  a  shaven  face,  a  wide-brimmed  hat,  and  a 
plaid  flung  over  his  shoulder.  The  letters  that  fol- 
lowed were  as  splendid  as  before,  but  now  commas 
and  stops  made  their  appearance  in  them,  the  gram- 
matical mistakes  disappeared,  and  there  was  a  dis- 
tinctly masculine  flavour  about  them.  Katya  began 
writing  to  me  how  splendid  it  would  be  to  build  a 
great  theatre  somewhere  on  the  Volga,  on  a  co- 
operative system,  and  to  attract  to  the  enterprise  the 
rich  merchants  and  the  steamer  owners;  there  would 


A  Dreary  Story  161 

be  a  great  deal  of  money  in  it;  there  would  be  vast 
audiences;  the  actors  would  play  on  co-operative 
terms.  .  .  .  Possibly  all  this  was  really  excellent, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  that  such  schemes  could  only 
originate  from  a  man's  mind. 

However  that  may  have  been,  for  a  year  and  a 
half  everything  seemed  to  go  well:  Katya  was  in 
love,  believed  in  her  work,  and  was  happy;  but  then 
I  began  to  notice  in  her  letters  unmistakable  signs  of 
falling  off.  It  began  with  Katya's  complaining  of 
her  companions  —  this  was  the  first  and  most  omi- 
nous symptom;  if  a  young  scientific  or  literary  man 
begins  his  career  with  bitter  complaints  of  scientific 
and  literary  men,  it  is  a  sure  sign  that  he  is  worn  out 
and  not  fit  for  his  work.  Katya  wrote  to  me  that 
her  companions  did  not  attend  the  rehearsals  and 
never  knew  their  parts;  that  one  could  see  in  every 
one  of  them  an  utter  disrespect  for  the  public  in  the 
production  of  absurd  plays,  and  in  their  behaviour 
on  the  stage ;  that  for  the  benefit  of  the  Actors'  Fund, 
which  they  only  talked  about,  actresses  of  the  serious 
drama  demeaned  themselves  by  singing  chansonettes, 
while  tragic  actors  sang  comic  songs  making  fun  of 
deceived  husbands  and  the  pregnant  condition  of  un- 
faithful wives,  and  so  on.  In  fact,  it  was  amazing 
that  all  this  had  not  yet  ruined  the  provincial  stage, 
and  that  it  could  still  maintain  itself  on  such  a  rotten 
and  unsubstantial  footing. 

In  answer  I  wrote  Katya  a  long  and,  I  must  con- 
fess, a  very  boring  letter.  Among  other  things,  I 
wrote  to  her : 

"  I  have  more  than  once  happened  to  converse 


162  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

with  old  actors,  very  worthy  men,  who  showed  a 
friendly  disposition  towards  me;  from  my  conversa- 
tions with  them  I  could  understand  that  their  work 
was  controlled  not  so  much  by  their  own  intelligence 
and  free  choice  as  by  fashion  and  the  mood  of  the 
public.  The  best  of  them  had  had  to  play  in  their 
day  in  tragedy,  in  operetta,  in  Parisian  farces,  and  in 
extravaganzas,  and  they  always  seemed  equally  sure 
that  they  were  on  the  right  path  and  that  they  were 
of  use.  So,  as  you  see,  the  cause  of  the  evil  must  be 
sought,  not  in  the  actors,  but,  more  deeply,  in  the  art 
itself  and  in  the  attitude  of  the  whole  of  society  to 
it." 

This  letter  of  mine  only  irritated  Katya.  She 
answered  me : 

"  You  and  I  are  singing  parts  out  of  different 
operas.  I  wrote  to  you,  not  of  the  worthy  men  who 
showed  a  friendly  disposition  to  you,  but  of  a  band 
of  knaves  who  have  nothing  worthy  about  them. 
They  are  a  horde  of  savages  who  have  got  on  the 
stage  simply  because  no  one  would  have  taken  them 
elsewhere,  and  who  call  themselves  artists  simply 
because  they  are  impudent.  There  are  numbers  of 
dull-witted  creatures,  drunkards,  intriguing  schemers 
and  slanderers,  but  there  is  not  one  person  of  talent 
among  them.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  bitter  it  is  to 
me  that  the  art  I  love  has  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
people  I  detest;  how  bitter  it  is  that  the  best  men 
look  on  at  evil  from  afar,  not  caring  to  come  closer, 
and,  instead  of  intervening,  write  ponderous  com- 
monplaces and  utterly  useless  sermons.  .  .  ."  And 
so  on,  all  in  the  same  style. 


A  Dreary  Story  163 

A  little  time  passed,  and  I  got  this  letter:  "I 
have  been  brutually  deceived.  I  cannot  go  on  living. 
Dispose  of  my  money  as  you  think  best.  I  loved  you 
as  my  father  and  my  only  friend.     Good-bye." 

It  turned  out  that  he,  too,  belonged  to  the  "  horde 
of  savages."  Later  on,  from  certain  hints,  I  gath- 
ered that  there  had  been  an  attempt  at  suicide.  I 
believe  Katya  tried  to  poison  herself.  I  imagine 
that  she  must  have  been  seriously  ill  afterwards,  as 
the  next  letter  I  got  was  from  Yalta,  where  she  had 
most  probably  been  sent  by  the  doctors.  Her  last 
letter  contained  a  request  to  send  her  a  thousand 
roubles  to  Yalta  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  ended 
with  these  words : 

"Excuse  the  gloominess  of  this  letter;  yesterday 
I  buried  my  child."  After  spending  about  a  year  in 
the  Crimea,  she  returned  home. 

She  had  been  about  four  years  on  her  travels,  and 
during  those  four  years,  I  must  confess,  I  had  played 
a  rather  strange  and  unenviable  part  in  regard  to 
her.  When  in  earlier  days  she  had  told  me  she  was 
going  on  the  stage,  and  then  wrote  to  me  of  her  love; 
when  she  was  periodically  overcome  by  extrava- 
gance, and  T  continually  had  to  send  her  first  one  and 
then  two  thousand  roubles;  when  she  wrote  to  me  of 
her  intention  of  suicide,  and  then  of  the  death  of 
her  baby,  every  time  I  lost  my  head,  and  all  my 
sympathy  for  her  sufferings  found  no  expression  ex- 
cept that,  after  prolonged  reflection,  I  wrote  long, 
boring  letters  which  I  might  just  as  well  not  have 
written.  And  yet  I  took  a  father's  place  with  her 
and  loved  her  like  a  daughter ! 


164 


The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


Now  Katya  is  living  less  than  half  a  mile  off.  She 
has  taken  a  flat  of  five  rooms,  and  has  installed  her- 
self fairly  comfortably  and  in  the  taste  of  the  day. 
If  any  one  were  to  undertake  to  describe  her  sur- 
roundings, the  most  characteristic  note  in  the  picture 
would  be  indolence.  For  the  indolent  body  there  are 
soft  lounges,  soft  stools;  for  indolent  feet  soft  rugs; 
for  indolent  eyes  faded,  dingy,  or  flat  colours;  for 
the  indolent  soul  the  walls  are  hung  with  a  number  of 
cheap  fans  and  trivial  pictures,  in  which  the  original- 
ity of  the  execution  is  more  conspicuous  than  the  sub- 
ject; and  the  room  contains  a  multitude  of  little 
tables  and  shelves  filled  with  utterly  useless  articles 
of  no  value,  and  shapeless  rags  in  place  of  curtains. 
.  .  .  All  this,  together  with  the  dread  of  bright 
colours,  of  symmetry,  and  of  empty  space,  bears 
witness  not  only  to  spiritual  indolence,  but  also  to  a 
corruption  of  natural  taste.  For  days  together 
Katya  lies  on  the  lounge  reading,  principally  novels 
and  stories.  She  only  goes  out  of  the  house  once  a 
day,  in  the  afternoon,  to  see  me. 

I  go  on  working  while  Katya  sits  silent  not  far 
from  me  on  the  sofa,  wrapping  herself  in  her  shawl, 
as  though  she  were  cold.  Either  because  I  find  her 
sympathetic  or  because  I  was  used  to  her  frequent 
visits  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  her  presence  does 
not  prevent  me  from  concentrating  my  attention. 
From  time  to  time  I  mechanically  ask  her  some  ques- 
tion; she  gives  very  brief  replies;  or,  to  rest  for  a 
minute,  I  turn  round  and  watch  her  as  she  looks 
dreamily  at  some  medical  journal  or  review.  And 
at  such  moments  I  notice  that  her  face  has  lost  the 


A  Dreary  Story  165 

old  look  of  confiding  trustfulness.  Her  expression 
now  is  cold,  apathetic,  and  absent-minded,  like  that 
of  passengers  who  had  to  wait  too  long  for  a  train. 
She  is  dressed,  as  in  old  days,  simply  and  beautifully, 
but  carelessly;  her  dress  and  her  hair  show  visible 
traces  of  the  sofas  and  rocking-chairs  in  which  she 
spends  whole  days  at  a  stretch.  And  she  has  lost  the 
curiosity  she  had  in  old  days.  She  has  ceased  to  ask 
me  questions  now,  as  though  she  had  experienced 
everything  in  life  and  looked  for  nothing  new 
from  it. 

Towards  four  o'clock  there  begins  to  be  sounds 
of  movement  in  the  hall  and  in  the  drawing-room. 
Liza  has  come  back  from  the  Conservatoire,  and 
has  brought  some  girl-friends  in  with  her.  We  hear 
them  playing  on  the  piano,  trying  their  voices  and 
laughing;  in  the  dining-room  Yegor  is  laying  the 
table,  with  the  clatter  of  crockery. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Katya.  "  I  won't  go  in  and  see 
your  people  today.  They  must  excuse  me.  I 
haven't  time.      Come  and  see  me." 

While  I  am  seeing  her  to  the  door,  she  looks  me 
up  and  down  grimly,  and  says  with  vexation: 

"You  are  getting  thinner  and  thinner!  Why 
don't  you  consult  a  doctor?  I'll  call  at  Sergey  Fy- 
odorovitch's  and  ask  him  to  have  a  look  at  you." 

"  There's  no  need,  Katya." 

"I  can't  think  where  your  people's  eyes  are! 
They  are  a  nice  lot,  I  must  say!  " 

She  puts  on  her  fur  coat  abruptly,  and  as  she  does 
so  two  or  three  hairpins  drop  unnoticed  on  the  floor 
from  her  carelessly  arranged  hair.     She  is  too  lazy 


166  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

and  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  do  her  hair  up;  she  care- 
lessly stuffs  the  falling  curls  under  her  hat,  and  goes 
away. 

When  I  go  into  the  dining-room  my  wife  asks  me: 

"  Was  Katya  with  you  just  now?  Why  didn't  she 
come  in  to  see  us?     It's  really  strange  .   .   ." 

11  Mamma,"  Liza  says  to  her  reproachfully,  "  let 
her  alone,  if  she  doesn't  want  to.  We  are  not  going 
down  on  our  knees  to  her." 

"  It's  very  neglectful,  anyway.  To  sit  for  three 
hours  in  the  study  without  remembering  our  exist- 
ence !     But  of  course  she  must  do  as  she  likes." 

Varya  and  Liza  both  hate  Katya.  This  hatred  is 
beyond  my  comprehension,  and  probably  one  would 
have  to  be  a  woman  in  order  to  understand  it.  I 
am  ready  to  stake  my  life  that  of  the  hundred  and 
fifty  young  men  I  see  every  day  in  the  lecture-theatre, 
and  of  the  hundred  elderly  ones  I  meet  every  week, 
hardly  one  could  be  found  capable  of  understanding 
their  hatred  and  aversion  for  Katya's  past  —  that  is, 
for  her  having  been  a  mother  without  being  a  wife, 
and  for  her  having  had  an  illegitimate  child;  and  at 
the  same  time  I  cannot  recall  one  woman  or  girl  of 
my  acquaintance  who  would  not  consciously  or  un- 
consciously harbour  such  feelings.  And  this  is  not 
because  woman  is  purer  or  more  virtuous  than  man: 
why,  virtue  and  purity  are  not  very  different  from 
vice  if  they  are  not  free  from  evil  feeling.  I  attri- 
bute this  simply  to  the  backwardness  of  woman. 
The  mournful  feeling  of  compassion  and  the  pang 
of  conscience  experienced  by  a  modern  man  at  the 
sight  of  suffering  is,  to  my  mind,  far  greater  proof 


A  Dreary  Story  167 

of  culture  and  moral  elevation  than  hatred  and  aver- 
sion. Woman  is  as  tearful  and  as  coarse  in  her  feel- 
ings now  as  she  was  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  to  my 
thinking  those  who  advise  that  she  should  be  edu- 
cated like  a  man  are  quite  right. 

My  wife  also  dislikes  Katya  for  having  been  an 
actress,  for  ingratitude,  for  pride,  for  eccentricity, 
and  for  the  numerous  vices  which  one  woman  can 
always  find  in  another. 

Besides  my  wife  and  daughter  and  me,  there  are 
dining  with  us  two  or  three  of  my  daughter's  friends 
and  Alexandr  Adolfovitch  Gnekker,  her  admirer  and 
suitor.  He  is  a  fair-haired  young  man  under  thirty, 
of  medium  height,  very  stout  and  broad-shouldered, 
with  red  whiskers  near  his  ears,  and  little  waxed 
moustaches  which  make  his  plump  smooth  face  look 
like  a  toy.  He  is  dressed  in  a  very  short  reefer 
jacket,  a  flowered  waistcoat,  breeches  very  full  at  the 
top  and  very  narrow  at  the  ankle,  with  a  large  check 
pattern  on  them,  and  yellow  boots  without  heels. 
He  has  prominent  eyes  like  a  crab's,  his  cravat  is  like 
a  crab's  neck,  and  I  even  fancy  there  is  a  smell  of 
crab-soup  about  the  young  man's  whole  person.  He 
visits  us  every  day,  but  no  one  in  my  family  knows 
anything  of  his  origin  nor  of  the  place  of  his  edu- 
cation, nor  of  his  means  of  livelihood.  He  neither 
plays  nor  sings,  but  has  some  connection  with  music 
and  singing,  sells  somebody's  pianos  somewhere,  is 
frequently  at  the  Conservatoire,  is  acquainted  with 
all  the  celebrities,  and  is  a  steward  at  the  concerts; 
he  criticizes  music  with  great  authority,  and  I  have 
noticed  that  people  are  eager  to  agree  with  him. 


168  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Rich  people  always  have  dependents  hanging  about 
them;  the  arts  and  sciences  have  the  same.  I  be- 
lieve there  is  not  an  art  nor  a  science  in  the  world 
free  from  "  foreign  bodies  "  after  the  style  of  this 
Mr.  Gnekker.  I  am  not  a  musician,  and  possibly  I 
am  mistaken  in  regard  to  Mr.  Gnekker,  of  whom, 
indeed,  I  know  very  little.  But  his  air  of  authority 
and  the  dignity  with  which  he  takes  his  stand  beside 
the  piano  when  any  one  is  playing  or  singing  strike 
me  as  very  suspicious. 

You  may  be  ever  so  much  of  a  gentleman  and  a 
privy  councillor,  but  if  you  have  a  daughter  you 
cannot  be  secure  of  immunity  from  that  petty  bour- 
geois atmosphere  which  is  so  often  brought  into  your 
house  and  into  your  mood  by  the  attentions  of 
suitors,  by  matchmaking  and  marriage.  I  can  never 
reconcile  myself,  for  instance,  to  the  expression  of 
triumph  on  my  wife's  face  every  time  Gnekker  is  in 
our  company,  nor  can  I  reconcile  myself  to  the  bot- 
tles of  Lafitte,  port  and  sherry  which  are  only 
brought  out  on  his  account,  that  he  may  see  with  his 
own  eyes  the  liberal  and  luxurious  way  in  which  we 
live.  I  cannot  tolerate  the  habit  of  spasmodic 
laughter  Liza  has  picked  up  at  the  Conservatoire, 
and  her  way  of  screwing  up  her  eyes  whenever  there 
are  men  in  the  room.  Above  all,  I  cannot  under- 
stand why  a  creature  utterly  alien  to  my  habits,  my 
studies,  my  whole  manner  of  life,  completely  differ- 
ent from  the  people  I  like,  should  come  and  see  me 
every  day,  and  every  day  should  dine  with  me.  My 
wife  and  my  servants  mysteriously  whisper  that  he  is 
a  suitor,  but  still  I  don't  understand  his  presence;  it 


A  Dreary  Story  169 

rouses  in  me  the  same  wonder  and  perplexity  as  if 
they  were  to  set  a  Zulu  beside  me  at  the  table.  And 
it  seems  strange  to  me,  too,  that  my  daughter,  whom 
I  am  used  to  thinking  of  as  a  child,  should  love  that 
cravat,  those  eyes,  those  soft  cheeks.  .  .  . 

In  the  old  days  I  used  to  like  my  dinner,  or  at  least 
was  indifferent  about  it;  now  it  excites  in  me  no  feel- 
ing but  weariness  and  irritation.  Ever  since  I  be- 
came an  "  Excellency  "  and  one  of  the  Deans  of  the 
Faculty  my  family  has  for  some  reason  found  it 
necessary  to  make  a  complete  change  in  our  menu 
and  dining  habits.  Instead  of  the  simple  dishes  to 
which  I  was  accustomed  when  I  was  a  student  and 
when  I  was  in  practice,  now  they  feed  me  with  a 
puree  with  little  white  things  like  circles  floating 
about  in  it,  and  kidneys  stewed  in  madeira.  My 
rank  as  a  general  and  my  fame  have  robbed  me  for 
ever  of  cabbage-soup  and  savoury  pies,  and  goose 
with  apple-sauce,  and  bream  with  boiled  grain. 
They  have  robbed  me  of  our  maid-servant  Agasha, 
a  chattv  and  laughter-loving  old  woman,  instead  of 
whom  Yegor,  a  dull-witted  and  conceited  fellow  with 
a  white  glove  on  his  right  hand,  waits  at  dinner. 
The  intervals  between  the  courses  are  short,  but  they 
seem  immensely  long  because  there  is  nothing  to 
occupy  them.  There  is  none  of  the  gaiety  of  the 
old  days,  the  spontaneous  talk,  the  jokes,  the 
laughter;  there  is  nothing  of  mutual  affection  and  the 
joy  which  used  to  animate  the  children,  my  wife,  and 
me  when  in  old  days  we  met  together  at  meals.  For 
me,  the  celebrated  man  of  science,  dinner  was  a  time 
of  rest  and  reunion,  and  for  my  wife  and  children  a 


170  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

fete  —  brief  indeed,  but  bright  and  joyous  —  in 
which  they  knew  that  for  half  an  hour  I  belonged, 
not  to  science,  not  to  students,  but  to  them  alone. 
Our  real  exhilaration  from  one  glass  of  wine  is  gone 
for  ever,  gone  is  Agasha,  gone  the  bream  with  boiled 
grain,  gone  the  uproar  that  greeted  every  little 
startling  incident  at  dinner,  such  as  the  cat  and  dog 
fighting  under  the  table,  or  Katya's  bandage  falling 
off  her  face  into  her  soup-plate. 

To  describe  our  dinner  nowadays  is  as  uninterest- 
ing as  to  eat  it.  My  wife's  face  wears  a  look  of  tri- 
umph and  affected  dignity,  and  her  habitual  expres- 
sion of  anxiety.  She  looks  at  our  plates  and  says, 
11 1  see  you  don't  care  for  the  joint.  Tell  me;  you 
don't  like  it,  do  you?  "  and  I  am  obliged  to  answer: 
"  There  is  no  need  for  you  to  trouble,  my  dear;  the 
meat  is  very  nice."  And  she  will  say:  "  You  al- 
ways stand  up  for  me,  Nikolay  Stepanovitch,  and  you 
never  tell  the  truth.  Why  is  Alexandr  Adolfovitch 
eating  so  little?"  And  so  on  in  the  same  style  all 
through  dinner.  Liza  laughs  spasmodically  and 
screws  up  her  eyes.  I  watch  them  both,  and  it  is 
only  now  at  dinner  that  it  becomes  absolutely  evi- 
dent to  me  that  the  inner  life  of  these  two  has  slipped 
away  out  of  my  ken.  I  have  a  feeling  as  though  I 
had  once  lived  at  home  with  a  real  wife  and  children 
and  that  now  I  am  dining  with  visitors,  in  the  house 
of  a  sham  wife  who  is  not  the  real  one,  and  am  look- 
in  at  a  Liza  who  is  not  the  real  Liza.  A  startling 
change  has  taken  place  in  both  of  them;  I  have 
missed  the  long  process  by  which  that  change  was 
effected,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  I  can  make  nothing 


A  Dreary  Story  171 

of  it.  Why  did  that  change  take  place?  I  don't 
know.  Perhaps  the  whole  trouble  is  that  God  has 
not  given  my  wife  and  daughter  the  same  strength  of 
character  as  me.  From  childhood  I  have  been  ac- 
customed to  resisting  external  influences,  and  have 
steeled  myself  pretty  thoroughly.  Such  catastrophes 
in  life  as  fame,  the  rank  of  a  general,  the  transition 
from  comfort  to  living  beyond  our  means,  acquaint- 
ance with  celebrities,  etc.,  have  scarcely  ajfexted  me, 
and  T  have  remained  intact  and  unashamed;  but  on 
my  wife  and  Liza,  who  have  not  been  through  the 
same  hardening  process  and  are  weak,  all  this  has 
fallen  like  an  avalanche  of  snow,  overwhelming  them. 
Gnekker  and  the  young  ladies  talk  of  fugues,  of 
counterpoint,  of  singers  and  pianists,  of  Bach  and 
Brahms,  while  my  wife,  afraid  of  their  suspecting 
her  of  ignorance  of  music,  smiles  to  them  sympathet- 
ically and  mutters:  "  That's  exquisite  .  ..  .  really! 
You  don't  say  so  I  .  .  .  Gnekker  eats  with  solid  dig- 
nity, jests  with  solid  dignity,  and  condescendingly 
listens  to  the  remarks  of  the  young  ladies.  From 
time  to  time  he  is  moved  to  speak  in  bad  French,  and 
then,  for  some  reason  or  other,  he  thinks  it  necessary 
to  address  me  as  "  Votre  Excellence" 

And  I  am  .glum.  Evidently  I  am  a  constraint  to 
them  and  they  are~a  constraint  to  me.T  have  never 
in  my  earlier  days  had  a  close  knowledge  of  class  an- 
tagonism, but  now  I  am  tormented  by  something  of 
that  sort.  I  am  on  the  lookout  for  nothing  but  bad 
qualities  in  Gnekker;  I  quickly  find  them,  and  am 
fretted  at  the  thought  that  a  man  not  of  my  circle  is 
sitting  here  as  my  daughter's  suitor.     His  presence 


172  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

has  a  bad  influence  on  me  in  other  ways,  too.  As  a 
rule,  when  I  am  alone  or  in  the  society  of  people  I 
like,  never  think  of  my  own  achievements,  or,  if  I 
do  recall  them,  they  seem  to  me  as  trivial  as  though  I 
had  only  completed  my  studies  yesterday;  but  in  the 
presence  of  people  like  Gnekker  my  achievements  in 
science  seem  to  be  a  lofty  mountain  the  top  of  which 
vanishes  into  the  clouds,  while  at  its  foot  Gnekkers 
are  running  about  scarcely  visible  to  the  naked  eye. 

After  dinner  I  go  into  my  study  and  there  smoke 
my  pipe,  the  only  one  in  the  whole  day,  the  sole  relic 
of  my  old  bad  habit  of  smoking  from  morning  till 
night.  While  I  am  smoking  my  wife  comes  in  and 
sits  down  to  talk  to  me.  Just  as  in  the  morning,  I 
know  beforehand  what  our  conversation  is  going  to 
be  about. 

"  I  must  talk  to  you  seriously,  Nikolay  Stepan- 
ovitch,"  she  begins.  "  I  mean  about  Liza.  .  .  . 
Why  don't  you  pay  attention  to  it?  " 

"To  what?" 

"  You  pretend  to  notice  nothing.  But  that  is  not 
right.  We  can't  shirk  responsibility.  .  .  .  Gnekker 
has  intentions  in  regard  to  Liza.  .  .  .  What  do  you 
say?" 

"  That  he  is  a  bad  man  I  can't  say,  because  I  don't 
know  him,  but  that  I  don't  like  him  I  have  told  you 
a  thousand  times  already." 

"  But  you  can't  .   .   .  you  can't!" 

She  gets  up  and  walks  about  in  excitement. 

"  You  can't  take  up  that  attitude  to  a  serious  step," 
she  says.  "  When  it  is  a  question  of  our  daughter's 
happiness  we  must  lay  aside  all  personal  feeling.      I 


A  Dreary  Story  173 

know  you  do  not  like  him.  .  .  .  Very  good  ...  if 
we  refuse  him  now,  if  we  break  it  all  off,  how  can  you 
be  sure  that  Liza  will  not  have  a  grievance  against 
us  all  her  life?  Suitors  are  not  plentiful  nowadays, 
goodness  knows,  and  it  may  happen  that  no  other 
match  will  turn  up.  .  .  .  He  is  very  much  in  love 
with  Liza,  and  she  seems  to  like  him.  ...  Of 
course,  he  has  no  settled  position,  but  that  can't  be 
helped.  Please  God,  in  time  he  will  get  one.  He  is 
of  good  family  and  well  off." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  that?  " 

"  He  told  us  so.  His  father  has  a  large  house  in 
Harkov  and  an  estate  in  the  neighbourhood.  In 
short,  Nikolay  Stepanovitch,  you  absolutely  must  go 
to  Harkov." 

"What  for?" 

"  You  will  find  out  all  about  him  there.  .  .  .  You 
know  the  professors  there;  they  will  help  you.  I 
would  go  myself,  but  I  am  a  woman.  I  can- 
not. .  .  ." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  Harkov,"  I  say  morosely. 

My  wife  is  frightened,  and  a  look  of  intense  suf- 
fering comes  into  her  face. 

11  For  God's  sake,  Nikolay  Stepanovitch,"  she  im- 
plores me,  with  tears  in  her  voice  — "  for  God's  sake, 
take  this  burden  off  me  !     I  am  so  worried !  " 

It  is  painful  for  me  to  look  at  her. 

"  Very  well,  Varya,"  I  say  affectionately,  "  if  you 
wish  it,  then  certainly  I  will  go  to  Harkov  and  do  all 
you  want." 

She  presses  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and  goes 
off  to  her  room  to  cry,  and  I  am  left  alone. 


174  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

A  little  later  lights  are  brought  in.  The  arm- 
chair and  the  lamp-shade  cast  familiar  shadows  that 
have  long  grown  wearisome  on  the  walls  and  on  the 
floor,  and  when  I  look  at  them  I  feel  as  though  the 
night  had  come  and  with  it  my  accursed  sleepless- 
ness. I  lie  on  my  bed,  then  get  up  and  walk  about 
the  room,  then  lie  down  again.  As  a  rule  it  is  after 
dinner,  at  the  approach  of  evening,  that  my  nervous 
excitement  reaches  its  highest  pitch.  For  no  reason 
I  begin  crying  and  burying  my  head  in  the  pillow. 
At  such  times  T  am  afraid  that  some  one  may  come 
in;  I  am  afraid  of  suddenly  dying;  I  am  ashamed  of 
my  tears,  and  altogether  there  is  something  insuf- 
ferable in  my  soul.  I  feel  that  I  can  no  longer  bear 
the  sight  of  my  lamp,  of  my  books,  of  the  shadows 
on  the  floor.  T  cannot  bear  the  sound  of  the  voices 
coming  from  the  drawing-room.  Some  force  un- 
seen, uncomprehended,  is  roughly  thrusting  me  out 
of  my  flat.  I  leap  up  hurriedly,  dress,  and  cau- 
tiously, that  mv  family  may  not  notice,  slip  out  into 
the  street.     Where  am  I  to  go? 

The  answer  to  that  question  has  long  been  ready 
in  my  brain.     To  Katya. 

Ill 

As  a  rule  she  is  lying  on  the  sofa  or  in  a  lounge- 
chair  reading.  Seeing  me,  she  raises  her  read  lan- 
guidly, sits  up,  and  shakes  hands. 

"  You  are  always  lying  down,"  I  say,  after  pausing 
and  taking  breath.  "  That's  not  good  for  you. 
You  ought  to  occupy  yourself  with  something." 


A  Dreary  Story  175 

"What?" 

"  I  say  you  ought  to  occupy  yourself  in  some 
way." 

"With  what?  A  woman  can  be  nothing  but  a 
simple  workwoman  or  an  actress." 

"  Well,  if  you  can't  be  a  workwoman,  be  an  ac- 
tress." 

She  says  nothing. 

"  You  ought  to  get  married,"  I  say,  half  in  jest. 

"  There  is  no  one  to  marry.  There's  no  reason 
to,  either." 

11  You  can't  live  like  this." 

"Without  a  husband?  Much  that  matters;  I 
could  have  as  many  men  as  I  like  if  I  wanted  to." 

"  That's  ugly,  Katya." 

"What  is  ugly?" 

"  Why,  what  you  have  just  said." 

Noticing  that  I  am  hurt  and  wishing  to  efface  the 
disagreeable  impression,  Katya  says: 

"  Let  us  go;  come  this  way." 

She  takes  me  into  a  very  snug  little  room,  and  says, 
pointing  to  the  writing-table  : 

"  Look  ...  I  have  got  that  ready  for  you.  You 
shall  work  here.  Come  here  every  day  and  bring 
your  work  with  you.  They  only  hinder  you  there  at 
home.     Will  you  work  here?     Will  you  like  to?" 

Not  to  wound  her  by  refusing,  I  answer  that  I  will 
work  here,  and  that  I  like  the  room  very  much. 
Then  we  both  sit  down  in  the  snug  little  room  and 
begin  talking. 

The  warm,  snug  surroundings  and  the  presence  of 
a  sympathetic  person  does  not,  as  in  old  days,  arouse 


176  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

in  me  a  feeling  of  pleasure,  but  an  intense  impulse  to 
complain  and  grumble.  I  feel  for  some  reason  that 
if  I  lament  and  complain  I  shall  feel  better. 

"  Things  are  in  a  bad  way  with  me,  my  dear  — 
very  bad.  .  .  ." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  You  see  how  it  is,  my  dear;  the  best  and  holiest 
right  of  kings  is  the  right  of  mercy.  And  I  have 
always  felt  myself  a  king,  since  I  have  made  unlim- 
ited use  of  that  right.  I  have  never  judged,  I  have 
been  indulgent,  I  have  readily  forgiven  every  one, 
right  and  left.  Where  others  have  protested  and 
expressed  indignation,  I  have  only  advised  and  per- 
suaded. All  my  life  it  has  been  my  endeavour  that 
my  society  should  not  be  a  burden  to  my  family,  to 
my  students,  to  my  colleagues,  to  my  servants.  And 
I  know  that  this  attitude  to  people  has  had  a  good 
influence  on  all  who  have  chanced  to  come  into  con- 
tact with  me.  But  now  I  am  not  a  king.  Something 
is  happening  to  me  that  is  only  excusable  in  a  slave; 
day  and  night  my  brain  is  haunted  by  evil  thoughts, 
and  feelings  such  as  I  never  knew  before  are  brood- 
ing in  my  soul.  I  am  full  of  hatred,  and  contempt, 
and  indignation,  and  loathing,  and  dread.  I  have 
become  execessively  severe,  exacting,  irritable,  un- 
gracious, suspicious.  Even  things  that  in  old  days 
would  have  provoked  me  only  to  an  unnecessary  jest 
and  a  good-natured  laugh  now  arouse  an  oppressive 
feeling  in  me.  My  reasoning,  too,  has  undergone  a 
change:  in  old  days  I  despised  money;  now  I  har- 
bour an  evil  feeling,  not  towards  money,  but  towards 
the  rich  as  though  they  were  to  blame:  in  old  days  I 


A  Dreary  Story  177 

hated  violence  and  tyranny,  but  now  I  hate  the  men 
who  make  use  of  violence,  as  though  they  were  alone 
to  blame,  and  not  all  of  us  who  do  not  know  how  to 
educate  each  other.  What  is  the  meaning  of  it?  If 
these  new  ideas  and  new  feelings  have  come  from  a 
change  of  convictions,  what  is  that  change  due  to? 
Can  the  world  have  grown  worse  and  I  better,  or 
was  I  blind  before  and  indifferent?  If  this  change 
is  the  result  of  a  general  decline  of  physical  and  in- 
tellectual powers  —  I  am  ill,  you  know,  and  every 
day  I  am  losing  weight  —  my  position  is  pitiable;  it 
means  that  my  new  ideas  are  morbid  and  abnormal; 
I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  them  and  think  them  of 
no  consequence.   .   .   ." 

"  Illness  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  Katya  inter- 
rupts me;  "it's  simply  that  your  eyes  are  opened, 
that's  all.  You  have  seen  what  in  old  days,  for 
some  reason,  you  refused  to  see.  To  my  thinking, 
what  you  ought  to  do  first  of  all,  is  to  break  with 
your  family  for  good,  and  go  away." 

"  You  are  talking  nonsense." 

"You  don't  love  them;  why  should  you  force 
your  feelings?  Can  you  call  them  a  family?  Non- 
entities! If  they  died  today,  no  one  would  notice 
their  absence  tomorrow." 

Katya  despises  my  wife  and  Liza  as  much  as  they 
hate  her.  One  can  hardly  talk  at  this  date  of  peo- 
ple's having  a  right  to  despise  one  another.  But  if 
one  looks  at  it  from  Katya's  standpoint  and  recog- 
nizes such  a  right,  one  can  see  she  has  as  much  right 
to  despise  my  wife  and  Liza  as  they  have  to  hate 
her. 


178  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Nonentities,"  she  goes  on.  "  Have  you  had 
dinner  today?  How  was  it  they  did  not  forget  to 
tell  you  it  was  ready?  How  is  it  they  still  remember 
your  existence?  " 

"  Katya,"  I  say  sternly,  "  I  beg  you  to  be 
silent." 

"You  think  I  enjoy  talking  about  them?  I 
should  be  glad  not  to  know  them  at  all.  Listen,  my 
dear:  give  it  all  up  and  go  away.  Go  abroad,  The 
sooner  the  better." 

"  What  nonsense  !     What  about  the  University?  " 

"The  University,  too.  What  is  it  to  you? 
There's  no  sense  in  it,  anyway.  You  have  been 
lecturing  for  thirty  years,  and  where  are  your  pu- 
pils? Are  many  of  them  celebrated  scientific  men? 
Count  them  up !  And  to  multiply  the  doctors  who 
exploit  ignorance  and  pile  up  hundreds  of  thousands 
for  themselves,  there  is  no  need  to  be  a  good  and 
talented  man.     You  are  not  wanted." 

"Good  heavens!  how  harsh  you  are!"  I  cry  in 
horror.  "  How  harsh  you  are!  Be  quiet  or  I  will 
go  away!  I  don't  know  how  to  answer  the  harsh 
things  you  say!  " 

The  maid  comes  in  and  summons  us  to  tea.  At 
the  samovar  our  conversation,  thank  God,  changes. 
After  having  had  my  grumble  out,  I  have  a  longing 
to  give  way  to  another  weakness  of  old  age,  remi- 
niscences. T  tell  Katya  about  my  past,  and  to  my 
great  astonishment  tell  her  incidents  which,  till  then, 
I  did  not  suspect  of  being  still  preserved  in  my  mem- 
ory, and  she  listens  to  me  with  tenderness,  with  pride, 
holding  her  breath.     I  am  particularly  fond  of  tell- 


A  Dreary  Story  179 

ing  her  how  I  was  educated  in  a  seminary  and 
dreamed  of  going  to  the  University. 

"  At  times  I  used  to  walk  about  our  seminary  gar- 
den ..."  I  would  tell  her.  "  If  from  some  far- 
away tavern  the  wind  floated  sounds  of  a  song  and 
the  squeaking  of  an  accordion,  or  a  sledge  with  bells 
dashed  by  the  garden-fence,  it  was  quite  enough  to 
send  a  rush  of  happiness,  filling  not  only  my  heart, 
but  even  my  stomach,  my  legs,  my  arms.  ...  I 
would  listen  to  the  accordion  or  the  bells  dying  away 
in  the  distance  and  imagine  myself  a  doctor,  and 
paint  pictures,  one  better  than  another.  And  here, 
as  you  see,  my  dreams  have  come  true.  I  have  had 
more  than  I  dared  to  dream  of.  For  thirty  years 
I  have  been  the  favourite  professor,  I  have  had 
splendid  comrades,  T  have  enjoyed  fame  and  honour. 
T  have  loved,  married  from  passionate  love,  have 
had  children.  In  fact,  looking  back  upon  it,  I  see  my 
whole  life  as  a  fine  composition  arranged  with  talent. 
Now  all  that  is  left  to  me  is  not.  to  spoil  the  end. 
For  that  I  must  die  like  a  man.  If  death  is  really 
a  thing  to  dread,  I  must  meet  it  as  a  teacher,  a  man 
of  science,  and  a  citizen  of  a  Christian  country  ought 
to  meet  it,  with  courage  and  untroubled  soul.  But 
I  am  spoiling  the  end;  I  am  sinking,  I  fly  to  you,  I 
beg  for  help,  and  you  tell  me  '  Sink;  that  is  what  you 
ought  to  do.'  " 

But  here  there  comes  a  ring  at  the  front-door. 
Katya  and  I  recognize  it,  and  say: 

"  It  must  be  Mihail  Fyodorovitch." 

And  a  minute  later  my  colleague,  the  philologist 
Mihail  Fyodorovitch,  a  tall,  well-built  man  of  fifty, 


180  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

clean-shaven,  with  thick  grey  hair  and  black  eye- 
brows, walks  in.  He  is  a  good-natured  man  and  an 
excellent  comrade.  He  comes  of  a  fortunate  and 
talented  old  noble  family  which  has  played  a  promi- 
nent part  in  the  history  of  literature  and  enlighten- 
ment. He  is  himself  intelligent,  talented,  and  very 
highly  educated,  but  has  his  oddities.  To  a  certain 
extent  we  are  all  odd  and  all  queer  fish,  but  in  his 
oddities  there  is  something  exceptional,  apt  to  cause 
anxiety  among  his  acquaintances.  I  know  a  good 
many  people  for  whom  his  oddities  completely  ob- 
scure his  good  qualities. 

Coming  in  to  us,  he  slowly  takes  off  his  gloves  and 
says  in  his  velvety  bass: 

"Good-evening.  Are  you  having  tea?  That's 
just  right.      It's  diabolically  cold." 

Then  he  sits  down  to  the  table,  takes  a  glass,  and 
at  once  begins  talking.  What  is  most  characteristic 
in  his  manner  of  talking  is  the  countinually  jesting 
tone,  a  sort  of  mixture  of  philosophy  and  drollery  as 
in  Shakespeare's  gravediggers.  He  is  always  talk- 
ing about  serious  things,  but  he  never  speaks  seri- 
ously. His  judgments  are  always  harsh  and  rail- 
ing, but,  thanks  to  his  soft,  even,  jesting  tone,  the 
harshness  and  abuse  do  not  jar  upon  the  ear,  and  one 
soon  grows  used  to  them.  Every  evening  he  brings 
with  him  five  or  six  anecdotes  from  the  University, 
and  he  usually  begins  with  them  when  he  sits  down 
to  table. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  he  sighs,  twitching  his  black  eye- 
brows ironically.  "  What  comic  people  there  are  in 
the  world!  " 


A  Dreary  Story  181 

"Well?"  asks  Katya. 

"  As  I  was  coming  from  my  lecture  this  morning 

I  met  that  old  idiot  N.  N on  the  stairs.  .  .  . 

He  was  going  along  as  usual,  sticking  out  his  chin 
like  a  horse,  looking  for  some  one  to  listen  to  his 
grumblings  at  his  migraine,  at  his  wife,  and  his  stu- 
dents who  won't  attend  his  lectures.  '  Oh,'  I 
thought,  '  he  has  seen  me  —  I  am  done  for  now;  it 
is  all  up. 

And  so  on  in  the  same  style.  Or  he  will  begin 
like  this: 

"  I  was  yesterday  at  our  friend  Z.  Z 's  pub- 
lic lecture.  I  wonder  how  it  is  our  alma  mater  — 
don't  speak  of  it  after  dark  —  dare  display  in  public 

such  noodles  and  patent  dullards  as  that  Z.  Z . 

Why,  he  is  a  European  fool!  Upon  my  word,  you 
could  not  find  another  like  him  all  over  Europe! 
He  lectures  —  can  you  imagine?  —  as  though  he 
were  sucking  a  sugar-stick  —  sue,  sue,  sue ;  ...  he 
is  in  a  nervous  funk;  he  can  hardly  decipher  his  own 
manuscript;  his  poor  little  thoughts  crawl  along  like 
a  bishop  on  a  bicycle,  and,  what's  worse,  you  can 
never  make  out  what  he  is  trying  to  say.  The 
deadly  dulness  is  awful,  the  very  flies  expire.  It 
can  only  be  compared  with  the  boredom  in  the  as- 
sembly-hall at  the  yearly  meeting  when  the  tradi- 
tional address  is  read  —  damn  it!  " 

And  at  once  an  abrupt  transition: 

"  Three  years  ago  —  Nikolay  Stepanovitch  here 
will  remember  it  —  I  had  to  deliver  that  address. 
It  was  hot,  stifling,  my  uniform  cut  me  under  the 
arms  —  it  was  deadly!     I  read  for  half  an  hour, 


182  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

for  an  hour,  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  for  two  hours. 
.  .  .  '  Come,'  I  thought;  '  thank  God,  there  are  only 
ten  pages  left!  '  And  at  the  end  there  were  four 
pages  that  there  was  no  need  to  read,  and  I  reckoned 
to  leave  them  out.  '  So  there  are  only  six  really,' 
I  thought;  'that  is,  only  six  pages  left  to  read.' 
But,  only  fancy,  I  chanced  to  glance  before  me,  and, 
sitting  in  the  front  row,  side  by  side,  were  a  general 
with  a  ribbon  on  his  breast  and  a  bishop.  The  poor 
beggars  were  numb  with  boredom;  they  were  staring 
with  their  eyes  wide  open  to  keep  awake,  and  yet 
they  were  trying  to  put  on  an  expression  of  attention 
and  to  pretend  that  they  understood  what  I  was  say- 
ing and  liked  it.  '  Well,'  I  thought,  '  since  you  like 
it  you  shall  have  it!  I'll  pay  you  out;'  so  I  just 
gave  them  those  four  pages  too." 

As  is  usual  with  ironical  people,  when  he  talks 
nothing  in  his  face  smiles  but  his  eyes  and  eyebrows. 
At  such  times  there  is  no  trace  of  hatred  or  spite  in 
his  eyes,  but  a  great  deal  of  humour,  and  that  pe- 
culiar fox-like  slyness  which  is  only  to  be  noticed  in 
very  observant  people.  Since  I  am  speaking  about 
his  eyes,  T  notice  another  peculiarity  in  them. 
When  he  takes  a  glass  from  Katya,  or  listens  to  her 
speaking,  or  looks  after  her  as  she  goes  out  of  the 
room  for  a  moment,  I  notice  in  his  eyes  something 
gentle,  beseeching,  pure.   .   .   . 

The  maid-servant  takes  away  the  samovar  and 
puts  on  the  table  a  large  piece  of  cheese,  some  fruit, 
and  a  bottle  of  Crimean  champagne  —  a  rather 
poor  wine  of  which  Katya  had  grown  fond  in  the 
Crimea.     Mihail  Fyodorovitch  takes  two  packs  of 


A  Dreary  Story  183 

cards  off  the  whatnot  and  begins  to  play  patience. 
According  to  him,  some  varieties  of  patience  require 
great  concentration  and  attention,  yet  while  he  lays 
out  the  cards  he  does  not  leave  off  distracting  his 
attention  with  talk.  Katya  watches  his  cards  at- 
tentively, and  more  by  gesture  than  by  words  helps 
him  in  his  play.  She  drinks  no  more  than  a  couple 
of  wine-glasses  of  wine  the  whole  evening;  I  drink 
four  glasses,  and  the  rest  of  the  bottle  falls  to  the 
share  of  Mihail  Fyodorovitch,  who  can  drink  a  great 
deal  and  never  get  drunk. 

Over  our  patience  we  settle  various  questions, 
principally  of  the  higher  order,  and  what  we  care 
for  most  of  all  —  that  is,  science  and  learning  —  is 
more  roughly  handled  than  anything. 

11  Science,  thank  God,  has  outlived  its  day,"  says 
Mihail  Fyodorovitch  emphatically.  "  Its  song  is 
sung.  Yes,  indeed.  Mankind  begins  to  feel  im- 
pelled to  replace  it  by  something  different.  It  has 
grown  on  the  soil  of  superstition,  been  nourished  by 
superstition,  and  is  now  just  as  much  the  quintessence 
of  superstition  as  its  defunct  granddames,  alchemy, 
metaphysics,  and  philospohy.  And,  after  all,  what 
has  it  given  to  mankind?  Why,  the  difference  be- 
tween the  learned  Europeans  and  the  Chinese  who 
have  no  science  is  trifling,  purely  external.  The 
Chinese  know  nothing  of  science,  but  what  have  they 
lost  thereby?  " 

"  Flies  know  nothing  of  science,  either,"  I  ob- 
serve, "  but  what  of  that?  " 

"  There  is  no  need  to  be  angry,  Nikolay  Stepano- 
vitch.     I  only  say  this  here  between  ourselves.  .  .  . 


184 


The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


I  am  more  careful  than  you  think,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  say  this  in  public  —  God  forbid !  The 
superstition  exists  in  the  multitude  that  the  arts  and 
sciences  are  superior  to  agriculture,  commerce,  su- 
perior to  handicrafts.  Our  sect  is  maintained  by 
that  superstition,  and  it  is  not  for  you  and  me  to 
destroy  it.     God  forbid!  " 

After  patience  the  younger  generation  comes  in 
for  a  dressing  too. 

"  Our  audiences  have  degenerated,"  sighs  Mihail 
Fyodorovitch.  "  Not  to  speak  of  ideals  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  if  only  they  were  capable  of  work  and 
rational  thought!  In  fact,  it's  a  case  of  'I  look 
with  mournful  eyes  on  the  young  men  of  today.'  " 

"Yes;  they  have  degenerated  horribly,"  Katya 
agrees.  "  Tell  me,  have  you  had  one  man  of  dis- 
tinction among  them  for  the  last  five  or  ten  years?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  the  other  professors, 
but  I  can't  remember  any  among  mine." 

"  I  have  seen  in  my  day  many  of  your  students 
and  young  scientific  men  and  many  actors  —  well, 
I  have  never  once  been  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  —  I 
won't  say  a  hero  or  a  man  of  talent,  but  even  an 
interesting  man.  It's  all  the  same  grey  mediocrity, 
puffed  up  with  self-conceit." 

All  this  talk  of  degeneration  always  affects  me  as 
though  I  had  accidentally  overheard  offensive  talk 
about  my  own  daughter.  It  offends  me  that  these 
charges  are  wholesale,  and  rest  on  such  worn-out 
commonplaces,  on  such  wordy  vapourings  as  degen- 
eration and  absence  of  ideals,  or  on  references  to 
the  splendours  of  the  past.     Every  accusation,  even 


A  Dreary  Story  185 

if  it  is  uttered  in  ladies'  society,  ought  to  be  formu- 
lated with  all  possible  definiteness,  or  it  is  not  an 
accusation,  but  idle  disparagement,  unworthy  of 
decent  people. 

I  am  an  old  man,  I  have  been  lecturing  for  thirty 
years,  but  I  notice  neither  degeneration  nor  lack  of 
ideals,  and  I  don't  find  that  the  present  is  worse 
than  the  past.  My  porter  Nikolay,  whose  experi- 
ence of  this  subject  has  its  value,  says  that  the  stu- 
dents of  today  are  neither  better  nor  worse  than 
those  of  the  past. 

If  I  were  asked  what  I  don't  like  in  my  pupils  of 
today,  I  should  answer  the  question,  not  straight  off 
and  not  at  length,  but  with  sufficient  definiteness. 
I  know  their  failings,  and  so  have  no  need  to  resort 
to  vague  generalities.  I  don't  like  their  smoking, 
using  spirituous  beverages,  marrying  late,  and  often 
being  so  irresponsible  and  careless  that  they  will  let 
one  of  their  number  be  starving  in  their  midst  while 
they  neglect  to  pay  their  subscriptions  to  the  Stu- 
dents' Aid  Society.  They  don't  know  modern  lan- 
guages, and  they  don't  express  themselves  correctly 
in  Russian;  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday  my  col- 
league, the  professor  of  hygiene,  complained  to  me 
that  he  had  to  give  twice  as  many  lectures,  because 
the  students  had  a  very  poor  knowledge  of  physics 
and  were  utterly  ignorant  of  meteorology.  They 
are  readily  carried  away  by  the  influence  of  the  last 
new  writers,  even  when  they  are  not  first-rate,  but 
they  take  absolutely  no  interest  in  classics  such  as 
Shakespeare,  Marcus  Aurelius,  Epictetus,  or  Pascal, 
and  this  inability  to  distinguish  the  great  from  the 


186  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

small  betrays  their  ignorance  of  practical  life  more 
than  anything.  All  difficult  questions  that  have 
more  or  less  a  social  character  (for  instance  the 
migration  question)  they  settle  by  studying  mono- 
graphs on  the  subject,  but  not  by  way  of  scientific 
investigation  or  experiment,  though  that  method  is 
at  their  disposal  and  is  more  in  keeping  with  their 
calling.  They  gladly  become  ward-surgeons,  assist- 
ants, demonstrators,  external  teachers,  and  are  ready 
to  fill  such  posts  until  they  are  forty,  though  inde- 
pendence, a  sense  of  freedom  and  personal  initiative, 
are  no  less  necessary  in  science  than,  for  instance,  in 
art  or  commerce.  I  have  pupils  and  listeners,  but  no 
successors  and  helpers,  and  so  I  love  them  and  am 
touched  by  them,  but  am  not  proud  of  them.  And 
so  on,  and  so  on.  .  .  . 

Such  shortcomings,  however  numerous  they  may 
be,  can  only  give  rise  to  a  pessimistic  or  fault-finding 
temper  in  a  faint-hearted  and  timid  man.  All  these 
failings  have  a  casual,  transitory  character,  and  are 
completely  dependent  on  conditions  of  life;  in  some 
ten  years  they  will  have  disappeared  or  given  place 
to  other  fresh  defects,  which  are  all  inevitable  and 
will  in  their  turn  alarm  the  faint-hearted.  The  stu- 
dents' sins  often  vex  me,  but  that  vexation  is  nothing 
in  comparison  with  the  joy  I  have  been  experiencing 
now  for  the  last  thirty  years  when  I  talk  to  my 
pupils,  lecture  to  them,  watch  their  relations,  and 
compare  them  with  people  not  of  their  circle. 

Mihail  Fyodorovitch  speaks  evil  of  everything. 
Katya  listens,  and  neither  of  them  notices  into  what 
depths  the  apparently  innocent  diversion  of  finding 


A  Dreary  Story  187 

fault  with  their  neighbours  is  gradually  drawing 
them.  They  are  not  conscious  how  by  degrees  sim- 
ple talk  passes  into  malicious  mockery  and  jeering, 
and  how  they  are  both  beginning  to  drop  into  the 
habits  and  methods  of  slander. 

"  Killing  types  one  meets  with,"  says  Mihail  Fyo- 
dorovitch.  "  I  went  yesterday  to  our  friend  Yegor 
Petrovitch's,  and  there  I  found  a  studious  gentle- 
man, one  of  your  medicals  in  his  third  year,  I  believe. 
Such  a  face!  ...  in  the  Dobrolubov  style,  the  im- 
print of  profound  thought  on  his  brow;  we  got  into 
talk.  '  Such  doings,  young  man,'  said  I.  '  I've 
read,'  said  I,  '  that  some  German  —  I've  forgotten 
his  name  —  has  created  from  the  human  brain  a  new 
kind  of  alkaloid,  idiotine.'  What  do  you  think? 
He  believed  it,  and  there  was  positively  an  expres- 
sion of  respect  on  his  face,  as  though  to  say,  '  See 
what  we  fellows  can  do !  '  And  the  other  day  I 
went  to  the  theatre.  I  took  my  seat.  In  the  next 
row  directly  in  front  of  me  were  sitting  two  men: 
one  of  '  us  fellows  '  and  apparently  a  law  student, 
the  other  a  shaggy-looking  figure,  a  medical  student. 
The  latter  was  as  drunk  as  a  cobbler.  He  did  not 
look  at  the  stage  at  all.  He  was  dozing  with  his 
nose  on  his  shirt-front.  But  as  soon  as  an  actor 
begins  loudly  reciting  a  monologue,  or  simply  raises 
his  voice,  our  friend  starts,  pokes  his  neighbour  in 
the  ribs,  and  asks,  '  What  is  he  saying?  Is  it 
elevating?'  'Yes,'  answers  one  of  our  fellows. 
'  B-r-r-ravo !  '  roars  the  medical  student.  'Elevat- 
ing! Bravo!'  He  had  gone  to  the  theatre,  you 
see,  the  drunken  blockhead,  not  for  the  sake  of  art, 


188  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  play,  but  for  elevation !  He  wanted  noble  senti- 
ments." 

Katya  listens  and  laughs.  She  has  a  strange 
laugh;  she  catches  her  breath  in  rhythmically  regular 
gasps,  very  much  as  though  she  were  playing  the 
accordion,  and  nothing  in  her  face  is  laughing  but 
her  nostrils.  I  grow  depressed  and  don't  know 
what  to  say.  Beside  myself,  I  fire  up,  leap  up  from 
my  seat,  and  cry: 

"  Do  leave  off!  Why  are  you  sitting  here  like 
two  toads,  poisoning  the  air  with  your  breath? 
Give  over!  " 

And  without  waiting  for  them  to  finish  their  gos- 
sip I  prepare  to  go  home.  And,  indeed,  it  is  high 
time:  it  is  past  ten. 

"  I  will  stay  a  little  longer,"  says  Mihail  Fyo- 
dorovitch.  "  Will  you  allow  me,  Ekaterina  Vladi- 
mirovna?  " 

11  I  will,"  answers  Katya. 

"  Bene!  In  that  case  have  up  another  little 
bottle." 

They  both  accompany  me  with  candles  to  the  hall, 
and  while  I  put  on  my  fur  coat,  Mihail  Fyodorovitch 
says : 

"  You  have  grown  dreadfully  thin  and  older  look- 
ing, Nikolay  Stepanovitch.  What's  the  matter  with 
you?     Are  you  ill?  " 

"  Yes;  I  am  not  very  well." 

"  And  you  are  not  doing  anything  for  it  .  .  ." 
Katya  puts  in  grimly. 

"Why  don't  you?  You  can't  go  on  like  that! 
God  helps  those  who  help  themselves,  my  dear  fel- 


A  Dreary  Story  189 

low.  Remember  me  to  your  wife  and  daughter, 
and  make  my  apologies  for  not  having  been  to  see 
them.  In  a  day  or  two,  before  I  go  abroad,  I  shall 
come  to  say  good-bye.  I  shall  be  sure  to.  I  am 
going  away  next  week." 

I  come  away  from  Katya,  irritated  and  alarmed 
by  what  has  been  said  about  my  being  ill,  and  dis- 
satisfied with  myself.  I  ask  myself  whether  I  really 
ought  not  to  consult  one  of  my  colleagues.  And  at 
once  I  imagine  how  my  colleague,  after  listening  to 
me,  would  walk  away  to  the  window  without  speak- 
ing, would  think  a  moment,  then  would  turn  round 
to  me  and,  trying  to  prevent  my  reading  the  truth 
in  his  face,  would  say  in  a  careless  tone:  "  So  far 
I  see  nothing  serious,  but  at  the  same  time,  collega, 
I  advise  you  to  lay  aside  your  work.  .  .  ."  And 
that  would  deprive  me  of  my  last  hope. 

Who  is  without  hope?  Now  that  I  am  diagnos- 
ing my  illness  and  prescribing  for  myself,  from  time 
to  time  I  hope  that  I  am  deceived  by  my  own  illness, 
that  I  am  mistaken  in  regard  to  the  albumen  and  the 
sugar  I  find,  and  in  regard  to  my  heart,  and  in 
regard  to  the  swellings  I  have  twice  noticed  in  the 
mornings;  when  with  the  fervour  of  the  hypochon- 
driac I  look  through  the  textbooks  of  therapeutics 
and  take  a  different  medicine  every  day,  I  keep 
fancying  that  I  shall  hit  upon  something  comforting. 
All  that  is  petty. 

Whether  the  sky  is  covered  with  clouds  or  the 
moon  and  the  stars  are  shining,  I  turn  my  eyes  to- 
wards it  every  evening  and  think  that  death  is  taking 
me  soon.     One  would  think  that  my  thoughts  at 


190  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

such  times  ought  to  be  deep  as  the  sky,  brilliant, 
striking.  .  .  .  But  no!  I  think  about  myself,  about 
my  wife,  about  Liza,  Gnekker,  the  students,  people 
in  general;  my  thoughts  are  evil,  petty,  I  am  insin- 
cere with  myself,  and  at  such  times  my  theory  of 
life  may  be  expressed  in  the  words  the  celebrated 
Araktcheev  said  in  one  of  his  intimate  letters: 
"  Nothing  good  can  exist  in  the  world  without  evil, 
and  there  is  more  evil  than  good."  That  is,  every- 
thing is  disgusting;  there  is  nothing  to  live  for,  and 
the  sixty-two  years  I  have  already  lived  must  be 
reckoned  as  wasted.  I  catch  myself  in  these 
thoughts,  and  try  to  persuade  myself  that  they  are 
accidental,  temporary,  and  not  deeply  rooted  in  me, 
but  at  once  I  think: 

"If  so,  what  drives  me  every  evening  to  those 
two  toads?  " 

And  I  vow  to  myself  that  I  will  never  go  to 
Katya's  again,  though  I  know  I  shall  go  next  evening. 

Ringing  the  bell  at  the  door  and  going  upstairs, 
I  feel  that  I  have  no  family  now  and  no  desire 
to  bring  it  back  again.  It  is  clear  that  the  new 
Araktcheev  thoughts  are  not  casual,  temporary  vis- 
itors, but  have  possession  of  my  whole  being.  With 
my  conscience  ill  at  ease,  dejected,  languid,  hardly 
able  to  move  my  limbs,  feeling  as  though  tons  were 
added  to  my  weight,  I  get  into  bed  and  quickly  drop 
asleep. 

And  then  —  insomnia! 


A  Dreary  Story  191 


IV 

Summer  comes  on  and  life  is  changed. 

One  fine  morning  Liza  comes  in  to  me  and  says  in 
a  jesting  tone : 

"  Come,  your  Excellency!     We  are  ready." 

My  Excellency  is  conducted  into  the  street,  and 
seated  in  a  cab.  As  I  go  along,  having  nothing  to 
do,  I  read  the  signboards  from  right  to  left.  The 
word  "  Traktir  "  reads  "  Ritkart  ";  that  would  just 
suit  some  baron's  family :  Baroness  Ritkart.  Farther 
on  I  drive  through  fields,  by  the  graveyard,  which 
makes  absolutely  no  impression  on  me,  though  I 
shall  soon  lie  in  it;  then  I  drive  by  forests  and  again 
by  fields.  There  is  nothing  of  interest.  After  two 
hours  of  driving,  my  Excellency  is  conducted  into 
the  lower  storey  of  a  summer  villa  and  installed  in  a 
small,  very  cheerful  little  room  with  light  blue  hang- 
ings. 

At  night  there  is  sleeplessness  as  before,  but  in 
the  morning  I  do  not  put  a  good  face  upon  it  and 
listen  to  my  wife,  but  lie  in  bed.  I  do  not  sleep, 
but  lie  in  the  drowsy,  half-conscious  condition  in 
which  you  know  you  are  not  asleep,  but  dreaming. 
At  midday  I  get  up  and  from  habit  sit  down  at  my 
table,  but  I  do  not  work  now;  I  amuse  myself  with 
French  books  in  yellow  covers,  sent  me  by  Katya. 
Of  course,  it  would  be  more  patriotic  to  read  Russian 
authors,  but  I  must  confess  I  cherish  no  particular 
liking  for  them.  With  the  exception  of  two  or  three 
of  the   older  writers,   all   our  literature   of  today 


/ 


192  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

strikes  me  as  not  being  literature,  but  a  special  sort 
of  home  industry,  which  exists  simply  in  order  to  be 
encouraged,  though  people  do  not  readily  make  use 
of  its  products.  The  very  best  of  these  home  pro- 
ducts cannot  be  called  remarkable  and  cannot  be 
sincerely  praised  without  qualification.  I  must  say 
the  same  of  all  the  literary  novelties  I  have  read 
during  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years;  not  one  of  them 
is  remarkable,  and  not  one  of  them  can  be  praised 
without  a  "  but."  Cleverness,  a  good  tone,  but  no 
talent;  talent,  a  good  tone,  but  no  cleverness;  or 
talent,  cleverness,  but  not  a  good  tone. 

I  don't  say  the  French  books  have  talent,  clever- 
ness, and  a  good  tone.  They  don't  satisfy  me,  either. 
But  they  are  not  so  tedious  as  the  Russian,  and  it  is 
not  unusual  to  find  in  them  the  chief  element  of  artis- 
tic creation  —  the  feeling  of  personal  freedom  which 
is  lacking  in  the  Russian  authors.  I  don't  remember 
one  new  book  in  which  the  author  does  not  try  from 
the  first  page  to  entangle  himself  in  all  sorts  of  con- 
ditions and  contracts  with  his  conscience.  One  is 
afraid  to  speak  of  the  naked  body;  another  ties  him- 
self up  hand  and  foot  in  psychological  analysis;  a 
third  must  have  a  "  warm  attitude  to  man  " ;  a  fourth 
purposely  scrawls  whole  descriptions  of  nature  that 
he  may  not  be  suspected  of  writing  with  a  purpose. 
.  .  .  One  is  bent  upon  being  middleclass  in  his  work, 
another  must  be  a  nobleman,  and  so  on.  There  is 
intentionalness,  circumspection,  and  self-will,  but  they 
have  neither  the  independence  nor  the  manliness  to 
write  as  they  like,  and  therefore  there  is  no  creative- 
ness. 


A  Dreary  Story  193 

All  this  applies  to  what  is  called  belles-lettres. 

As  for  serious  treatises  in  Russian  on  sociology, 
for  instance,  on  art,  and  so  on,  I  do  not  read  them 
simply  from  timidity.  In  my  childhood  and  early 
youth  I  had  for  some  reason  a  terror  of  doorkeepers 
and  attendants  at  the  theatre,  and  that  terror  has  re- 
mained with  me  to  this  day.  I  am  afraid  of  them 
even  now.  It  is  said  that  we. are  only  afraid  of  what 
we  do  not  understand.  And,  indeed,  it  is  very  diffi- 
cult to  understand  why  doorkeepers  and  theatre  at- 
tendants are  so  dignified,  haughty,  and  majestically 
rude.  I  feel  exactly  the  same  terror  when  I  read 
serious  articles.  Their  extraordinary  dignity,  their 
bantering  lordly  tone,  their  familiar  manner  to  for- 
eign authors,  their  ability  to  split  straws  with  dig- 
nity—  all  that  is  beyond  my  understanding;  it  is 
intimidating  and  utterly  unlike  the  quiet,  gentlemanly 
tone  to  which  I  am  accustomed  when  I  read  the 
works  of  our  medical  and  scientific  writers.  It  op- 
presses me  to  read  not  only  the  articles  written  by 
serious  Russians,  but  even  works  translated  or  edited 
by  them.  The  pretentious,  edifying  tone  of  the 
preface;  the  redundancy  of  remarks  made  by  the 
translator,  which  prevent  me  from  concentrating  my 
attention;  the  question  marks  and  "  sic  "  in  parenthe- 
sis scattered  all  over  the  book  or  article  by  the  liberal 
translator,  are  to  my  mind  an  outrage  on  the  author 
and  on  my  independence  as  a  reader, 

Once  I  was  summoned  as  an  expert  to  a  circuit 
court;  in  an  interval  one  of  my  fellow-experts  drew 
my  attention  to  the  rudeness  of  the  public  prosecutor 
to  the  defendants,   among  whom  there  were  two 


194  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

ladies  of  good  education.  I  believe  I  did  not  exag- 
gerate at  all  when  I  told  him  that  the  prosecutor's 
manner  was  no  ruder  than  that  of  the  authors  of 
serious  articles  to  one  another.  Their  manners  are, 
indeed,  so  rude  that  I  cannot  speak  of  them  without 
distaste.  They  treat  one  another  and  the  writers 
they  criticize  either  with  superfluous  respect,  at  the 
sacrifice  of  their  own  dignity,  or,  on  the  contrary, 
with  far  more  ruthlessness  than  I  have  shown  in  my 
notes  and  my  thoughts  in  regard  to  my  future  son- 
in-law  Gnekker.  Accusations  of  irrationality,  of  evil 
intentions,  and,  indeed,  of  every  sort  of  crime,  form 
an  habitual  ornament  of  serious  articles.  And  that, 
as  young  medical  men  are  fond  of  saying  in  their 
monographs,  is  the  ultima  ratio!  Such  ways  must 
infallibly  have  an  effect  on  the  morals  of  the  younger 
generation  of  writers,  and  so  I  am  not  at  all  sur- 
prised that  in  the  new  works  with  which  our  litera- 
ture has  been  enriched  during  the  last  ten  or  fifteen 
years  the  heroes  drink  too  much  vodka  and  the 
heroines  are  not  over-chaste. 

I  read  French  books,  and  I  look  out  of  the  window 
which  is  open;  I  can  see  the  spikes  of  my  garden- 
fence,  two  or  three  scraggy  trees,  and  beyond  the 
fence  the  road,  the  fields,  and  beyond  them  a  broad 
stretch  of  pine-wood.  Often  I  admire  a  boy  and 
girl,  both  flaxen-headed  and  ragged,  who  clamber  on 
the  fence  and  laugh  at  my  baldness.  In  their  shining 
little  eyes  I  read,  "  Go  up,  go  up,  thou  baldhead!  " 
They  are  almost  the  only  people  who  care  nothing 
for  my  celebrity  or  my  rank. 

Visitors  do  not  come  to  me  every  day  now.     I 


A  Dreary  Story  195 

will  only  mention  the  visits  of  Nikolay  and  Pyotr 
Ignatyevitch.  Nikolay  usually  comes  to  me  on  holi- 
days, with  some  pretext  of  business,  though  really 
to  see  me.  He  arrives  very  much  exhilarated,  a 
thing  which  never  occurs  to  him  in  the  winter. 

"  What  have  you  to  tell  me?  "  I  ask,  going  out 
to  him  in  the  hall. 

"Your  Excellency!  "  he  says,  pressing  his  hand 
to  his  heart  and  looking  at  me  with  the  ecstasy  of  a 
lover  — "  your  Excellency !  God  be  my  witness  ! 
Strike  me  dead  on  the  spot !  Gaudeamus  eg'itur  ju- 
ventus!  " 

And  he  greedily  kisses  me  on  the  shoulder,  on  the 
sleeve,  and  on  the  buttons. 

"  Is  everything  going  well?  "  I  ask  him. 

"Your  Excellency!      So  help  me  Godl   .   .   ." 

He  persists  in  grovelling  before  me  for  no  sort 
of  reason,  and  soon  bores  me,  so  I  send  him  away 
to  the  kitchen,  where  they  give  him  dinner. 

Pyotr  Ignatyevitch  comes  to  see  me  on  holidays, 
too,  with  the  special  object  of  seeing  me  and  sharing 
his  thoughts  with  me.  He  usually  sits  down  near  my 
table,  modest,  neat,  and  reasonable,  and  does  not 
venture  to  cross  his  legs  or  put  his  elbows  on  the 
table.  All  the  time,  in  a  soft,  even,  little  voice,  in 
rounded  bookish  phrases,  he  tells  me  various,  to  his 
mind,  very  interesting  and  piquant  items  of  news 
which  he  has  read  in  the  magazines  and  journals. 
They  are  all  alike  and  may  be  reduced  to  this  type: 
"  A  Frenchman  has  made  a  discovery;  some  one  else, 
a  German,  has  denounced  him,  proving  that  the  dis- 
covery was  made  in  1 8 70  by  some  American ;  while  a 


196 


The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


third  person,  also  a  German,  trumps  them  both  by 
proving  they  both  had  made  fools  of  themselves, 
mistaking  bubbles  of  air  for  dark  pigment  under  the 
microscope.  Even  when  he  wants  to  amuse  me, 
Pyotr  Ignatyevitch  tells  me  things  in  the  same 
lengthy,  circumstantial  manner  as  though  he  were 
defending  a  thesis,  enumerating  in  detail  the  literary 
sources  from  which  he  is  deriving  his  narrative,  do- 
ing his  utmost  to  be  accurate  as  to  the  date  and 
number  of  the  journals  and  the  name  of  every  one 
concerned,  invariably  mentioning  it  in  full  —  Jean 
Jacques  Petit,  never  simply  Petit.  Sometimes  he 
stays  to  dinner  with  us,  and  then  during  the  whole  of 
dinner-time  he  goes  on  telling  me  the  same  sort  of 
piquant  anecdotes,  reducing  every  one  at  table  to  a 
state  of  dejected  boredom.  If  Gnekker  and  Liza 
begin  talking  before  him  of  fugues  and  counterpoint, 
Brahms  and  Bach,  he  drops  his  eyes  modestly,  and  is 
overcome  with  embarrassment;  he  is  ashamed  that 
such  trivial  subjects  should  be  discussed  before  such 
serious  people  as  him  and  me. 

In  my  present  state  of  mind  five  minutes  of  him 
is  enough  to  sicken  me  as  though  I  had  been  seeing 
and  hearing  him  for  an  eternity.  I  hate  the  poor 
fellow.  His  soft,  smooth  voice  and  bookish  lan- 
guage exhaust  me,  and  his  stories  stupefy  me.  .  .  . 
Pie  cherishes  the  best  of  feelings  for  me,  and  talks 
to  me  simply  in  order  to  give  me  pleasure,  and  I 
repay  him  by  looking  at  him  as  though  I  wanted  to 
hypnotize  him,  and  think,  "  Go,  go,  go!  .  .  ."  But 
he  is  not  amenable  to  thought-suggestion,  and  sits 
on  and  on  and  on.   .  .  . 


A  Dreary  Story  197 

While  he  is  with  me  I  can  never  shake  off  the 
thought,  "  It's  possible  when  I  die  he  will  be  ap- 
pointed to  succeed  me,"  and  my  poor  lecture-hall 
presents  itself  to  me  as  an  oasis  in  which  the  spring 
is  died  up;  and  I  am  ungracious,  silent,  and  surly 
with  Pyotr  Ignatyevitch,  as  though  he  were  to  blame 
for  such  thoughts,  and  not  I  myself.  When  he  be- 
gins, as  usual,  praising  up  the  German  savants,  in- 
stead of  making  fun  of  him  good-humouredly,  as  I 
used  to  do,  I  mutter  sullenly: 

"Asses,  your  Germans!  .  .  ." 

That  is  like  the  late  Professor  Nikita  Krylov,  who 
once,  when  he  was  bathing  with  Pirogov  at  Revel 
and  vexed  at  the  water's  being  very  cold,  burst  out 
with,  "Scoundrels,  these  Germans!"  I  behave 
badly  with  Pyotr  Ignatyevitch,  and  only  when  he  is 
going  away,  and  from  the  window  I  catch  a  glimpse 
of  his  grey  hat  behind  the  garden-fence,  I  want  to  call 
out  and  say,  "  Forgive  me,  my  dear  fellow !  " 

Dinner  is  even  drearier  than  in  the  winter.  Gnek- 
ker,  whom  now  I  hate  and  despise,  dines  with  us  al- 
most every  day.  I  used  to  endure  his  presence  in 
silence,  now  I  aim  biting  remarks  at  him  which  make 
my  wife  and  daughter  blush.  Carried  away  by  evil 
feeling,  I  often  say  things  that  are  simply  stupid,  and 
I  don't  know  why  I  say  them.  So  on  one  occasion 
it  happened  that  I  stared  a  long  time  at  Gnekker, 
and,  a  propos  of  nothing,  I  fired  off : 

r  An  eagle  may  perchance  swoop  down  below  a  cock, 
/    But  never  will  the  fowl  soar  upwards  to  the  clouds.  .  .  ." 

And  the  most  vexatious  thing  is  that  the  fowl 


198  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Gnekker  shows  himself  much  cleverer  than  the  eagle 
professor.  Knowing  that  my  wife  and  daughter  are 
on  his  side,  he  takes  up  the  line  of  meeting  my  gibes 
with  condescending  silence,  as  though  to  say: 

"  The  old  chap  is  in  his  dotage;  what's  the  use  of 
talking  to  him?  " 

Or  he  makes  fun  of  me  good-naturedly.  It  is  won- 
derful how  petty  a  man  may  become !  I  am  capable 
of  dreaming  all  dinner-time  of  how  Gnekker  will  turn 
out  to  be  an  adventurer,  how  my  wife  and  Liza  will 
come  to  see  their  mistake,  and  how  I  will  taunt  them 
—  and  such  absurd  thoughts  at  the  time  when  I  am 
standing  with  one  foot  in  the  grave ! 

There  are  now,  too,  misunderstandings  of  which 
in  the  old  days  I  had  no  idea  except  from  hearsay. 
Though  I  am  ashamed  of  it,  I  will  describe  one  that 
occurred  the  other  day  after  dinner. 

I  was  sitting  in  my  room  smoking  a  pipe;  my  wife 
came  in  as  usual,  sat  down,  and  began  saying  what 
a  good  thing  it  would  be  for  me  to  go  to  Harkov 
now  while  it  is  warm  and  I  have  free  time,  and  there 
find  out  what  sort  of  person  our  Gnekker  is. 

"Very  good;  I  will  go,"  I  assented. 

My  wife,  pleased  with  me,  got  up  and  was  going 
to  the  door,  but  turned  back  and  said: 

"  By  the  way,  I  have  another  favour  to  ask  of  you. 
I  know  you  will  be  angry,  but  it  is  my  duty  to  warn 
you.  .  .  .  Forgive  my  saying  it,  Nikolay  Stepano- 
vitch,  but  all  our  neighbours  and  acquaintances  have 
begun  talking  about  your  being  so  often  at  Katya's. 
She  is  clever  and  well-educated;  I  don't  deny  that  her 
company  may  be  agreeable;  but  at  your  age  and  with 


A  Dreary  Story  199 

your  social  position  it  seems  strange  that  you  should 
find  pleasure  in  her  society.  .  .  .  Besides,  she  has 
such  a  reputation  that  .  .  ." 

All  the  blood  suddenly  rushed  to  my  brain,  my  eyes 
flashed  fire,  I  leaped  up  and,  clutching  at  my  head 
and  stamping  my  feet,  shouted  in  a  voice  unlike  my 
own : 

"  Let  me  alone !  let  me  alone !  let  me  alone !  " 

Probably  my  face  was  terrible,  my  voice  was 
strange,  for  my  wife  suddenly  turned  pale  and  began 
shrieking  aloud  in  a  despairing  voice  that  was  utterly 
unlike  her  own.  Liza,  Gnekker,  then  Yegor,  came 
running  in  at  our  shouts.  .  .  . 

"  Let  me  alone!  "  I  cried;  "  let  me  alone!  Go 
away!  " 

My  legs  turned  numb  as  though  they  had  ceased 
to  exist;  I  felt  myself  falling  into  some  one's  arms; 
for  a  little  while  I  still  heard  weeping,  then  sank  into 
a  swoon  which  lasted  two  or  three  hours. 

Now  about  Katya ;  she  comes  to  see  me  every  day 
towards  evening,  and  of  course  neither  the  neigh- 
bours nor  our  acquaintances  can  avoid  noticing  it. 
She  comes  in  for  a  minute  and  carries  me  off  for  a 
drive  with  her.  She  has  her  own  horse  and  a  new 
chaise  bought  this  summer.  Altogether  she  lives 
in  an  expensive  style;  she  has  taken  a  big  detached 
villa  with  a  large  garden,  and  has  taken  all  her  town 
retinue  with  her  —  two  maids,  a  coachman  ...  I 
often  ask  her: 

"  Katya,  what  will  you  live  on  when  you  have 
spent  your  father's  money?  " 

"  Then  we  shall  see,"  she  answers. 


v 


200  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  That  money,  my  dear,  deserves  to  be  treated 
more  seriously.  It  was  earned  by  a  good  man,  by 
honest  labour." 

"  You  have  told  me  that  already.     1  know  it. 

At  first  we  drive  through  the  open  country,  then 
through  the  pine-wood  which  is  visible  from  my  win- 
dow. Nature  seems  to  me  as  beautiful  as  it  always 
has  been,  though  some  evil  spirit  whispers  to  me  that 
these  pines  and  fir  trees,  birds,  and  white  clouds  on 
the  sky,  will  not  notice  my  absence  when  in  three  or 
four  months  I  am  dead.  Katya  loves  driving,  and 
is  pleased  that  it  is  fine  weather  and  that .  1  am 
1       -  -de  her.     She  is  in  good  spirits  and  does 

not  say  h.    ^ 

.  "  Y°u  are  *    „  sood  man'  Nikolay  StePano" 
vitch,"  she  says.     '    ,    are  a  rare  specimen,  and 

there  isn't  an  actor  who   n|j  understand  how  to 

play  you.     Me  or  Mihail  Fyo  rovitch,  for  instance, 

any  poor  actor  could  do,  but  nc,ou.     And  I  envy 

you,  I  envy  you  horribly!     Do  y  know  what  I 

stand  for?     What?" 

She  ponders  for  a  minute,  and  then  i^s  me : 

"  Nikolay  Stepanovitch,  I  am  a  negativohenome- 
non!     Yes?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answer. 

"H'm!  what  am  I  to  do?" 

What  answer  was  I  to  make  her?  It  is  <sy  to 
say  "  work,"  or  "  give  your  possessions  to  the  ?or," 
or  "  know  yourself,"  and  because  it  is  so  easy  >  say 
that,  I  don't  know  what  to  answer. 

My  colleagues  when  they  teach  therapeutis  ad- 
vise "  the  individual  study  of  each  separate  :ase." 


A  Dreary  Story  201 

One  has  but  to  obey  this  advice  to  gain  the  conviction 
that  the  methods  recommended  in  the  textbooks  as 
the  best  and  as  providing  a  safe  basis  for  treatment 
turn  out  to  be  quite  unsuitable  in  individual  cases.  It 
is  just  the  same  in  moral  ailments. 

But  I  must  make  some  answer,  and  I  say: 

"  You  have  too  much  free  time,  my  dear;  you  ab- 
solutely must  take  up  some  occupation.  After  all, 
why  shouldn't  you  be  an  actress  again  if  it  is  your 
vocation?  " 

"I  cannot!" 

"  Your  tone  and  manner  suggest  that  you  are  a 
victim.  I  don't  like  that,  my  dear;  it  is  your  own 
fault.  Remember,  you  began  with  falling  out  with 
people  and  methods,  but  you  have  done  nothing  to 
make  either  better.  You  did  not  struggle  with  evil, 
but  were  cast  down  by  it,  and  you  are  not  the  victim 
of  the  struggle,  but  of  your  own  impotence.  Well, 
of  course  you  were  young  and  inexperienced  then; 
now  it  may  all  be  different.  Yes,  really,  go  on  the 
stage.     You  will  work,  you  will  serve  a  sacred  art." 

"  Don't  pretend,  Nikolay  Stepanovitch,"  Katya  in- 
terrupts me.  "  Let  us  make  a  compact  once  for  all; 
we  will  talk  about  actors,  actresses,  and  authors, 
but  we  will  let  art  alone.  You  are  a  splendid  and 
rare  person,  but  you  don't  know  enough  about  art 
sincerely  to  think  it  sacred.  You  have  no  instinct 
or  feeling  for  art.  You  have  been  hard  at  work 
all  your  life,  and  have  not  had  time  to  acquire  that 
feeling.  Altogether  ...  I  don't  like  talk  about 
art,"  she  goes  on  nervously.  "I  don't  like  it! 
And,  my  goodness,  how  they  have  vulgarized  it !  " 


202  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

11  Who  has  vulgarized  it?  " 

'  They  have  vulgarized  it  by  drunkenness,  the 
newspapers  by  their  familiar  attitude,  clever  people 
by  philosophy." 

"  Philosophy  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  Yes,  it  has.  If  any  one  philosophizes  about  it, 
it  shows  he  does  not  understand  it." 

To  avoid  bitterness  I  hasten  to  change  the  subject, 
and  then  sit  a  long  time  silent.  Only  when  we  are 
driving  out  of  the  wood  and  turning  towards  Katya's 
villa  I  go  back  to  my  former  question,  and  say: 

"  You  have  still  not  answered  me,  why  you  don't 
want  to  go  on  the  stage." 

"  Nikolay  Stepanovitch,  this  is  cruel!"  she  cries, 
and  suddenly  flushes  all  over.  "  You  want  me  to 
tell  you  the  truth  aloud?  Very  well,  if  .  .  .  if  you 
like  it!  I  have  no  talent!  No  talent  and  .  .  .  and 
a  great  deal  of  vanity !      So  there  !  " 

After  making  this  confession  she  turns  her  face 
away  from  me,  and  to  hide  the  trembling  of  her 
hands  tugs  violently  at  the  reins. 

As  we  are  driving  towards  her  villa  we  see  Mihail 
Fyodorovitch  walking  near  the  gate,  impatiently 
awaiting  us. 

"  That  Mihail  Fyodorovitch  again!  "  says  Katya 
with  vexation.  "  Do  rid  me  of  him,  please!  I  am 
sick  and  tired  of  him  .   .   .  bother  him!" 

Mihail  Fyodorovitch  ought  to  have  gone  abroad 
long  ago,  but  he  puts  off  going  from  week  to  week. 
Of  late  there  have  been  certain  changes  in  him.  He 
looks,  as  it  were,  sunken,  has  taken  to  drinking  until 
he  is  tipsy,  a  thing  which  never  used  to  happen  to 


A  Dreary  Story  203 

him,  and  his  black  eyebrows  are  beginning  to  turn 
grey.  When  our  chaise  stops  at  the  gate  he  does 
not  conceal  his  joy  and  his  impatience.  He  fussily 
helps  me  and  Katya  out,  hurriedly  asks  questions, 
laughs,  rubs  his  hands,  and  that  gentle,  imploring, 
pure  expression,  which  I  used  to  notice  only  in  his 
eyes,  is  now  suffused  all  over  his  face.  He  is  glad 
and  at  the  same  time  he  is  ashamed  of  his  gladness, 
ashamed  of  his  habit  of  spending  every  evening  with 
Katya.  And  he  thinks  it  necessary  to  explain  his 
visit  by  some  obvious  absurdity  such  as:  "  I  was  driv- 
ing by,  and  I  thought  I  would  just  look  in  for  a 
minute." 

We  all  three  go  indoors;  first  we  drink  tea,  then 
the  familiar  packs  of  cards,  the  big  piece  of  cheese, 
the  fruit,  and  the  bottle  of  Crimean  champagne  are 
put  upon  the  table.  The  subjects  of  our  conversa- 
tion are  not  new;  they  are  just  the  same  as  in  the 
winter.  We  fall  foul  of  the  University,  the  stu- 
dents, and  literature  and  the  theatre;  the  air  grows 
thick  and  stifling  with  evil  speaking,  and  poisoned  by 
the  breath,  not  of  two  toads  as  in  the  winter,  but  of 
three.  Besides  the  velvety  baritone  laugh  and  the 
giggle  like  the  gasp  of  a  concertina,  the  maid  who 
waits  upon  us  hears  an  unpleasant  cracked  "  He, 
he  !  "  like  the  chuckle  of  a  general  in  a  vaudeville. 


V 

There  are  terrible  nights  with  thunder,  lightning, 
rain,  and  wind,  such  as  are  called  among  the  people 


204  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  sparrow  nights."  There  has  been  one  such  night 
in  my  personal  life.   .   .   . 

I  woke  up  after  midnight  and  leaped  suddenly 
out  of  bed.  It  seemed  to  me  for  some  reason  that 
I  was  just  immediately  going  to  die.  Why  did  it 
seem  so?  I  had  no  sensation  in  my  body  that  sug- 
gested my  immediate  death,  but  my  soul  was  op- 
pressed with  terror,  as  though  I  had  suddenly  seen 
a  vast  menacing  glow  of  fire. 

I  rapidly  struck  a  light,  drank  some  water  straight 
out  of  the  decanter,  then  hurried  to  the  open  window. 
The  weather  outside  was  magnificent.  There  was 
a  smell  of  hay  and  some  other  very  sweet  scent.  I 
could  see  the  spikes  of  the  fence,  the  gaunt,  drowsy 
trees  by  the  window,  the  road,  the  dark  streak  of 
woodland,  there  was  a  serene,  very  bright  moon  in 
the  sky  and  not  a  single  cloud,  perfect  stillness,  not 
one  leaf  stirring.  I  felt  that  everything  was  looking 
at  me  and  waiting  for  me  to  die.   .   .   . 

It  was  uncanny.  I  closed  the  window  and  ran  to 
my  bed.  I  felt  for  my  pulse,  and  not  finding  it  in 
my  wrist,  tried  to  find  it  in  my  temple,  then  in  my 
chin,  and  again  in  my  wrist,  and  everything  I  touched 
was  cold  and  clammy  with  sweat.  My  breathing 
came  more  and  more  rapidly,  my  body  was  shivering, 
all  my  inside  was  in  commotion;  I  had  a  sensation  on 
my  face  and  on  my  bald  head  as  though  they  were 
covered  with  spiders'  webs. 

What  should  I  do?  Call  my  family?  No;  it 
would  be  no  use.  I  could  not  imagine  what  my  wife 
and  Liza  would  do  when  they  came  in  to  me. 

J  hid  my  head  under  the  pillow,  closed  my  eyes, 


A  Dreary  Story  205 

and  waited  and  waited.  .  .  .  My  spine  was  cold;  it 
seemed  to  be  drawn  inwards,  and  I  felt  as  though 
death  were  coming  upon  me  stealthily  from  be- 
hind. .  .  . 

"  Kee-vee!  kee-vee!  "  I  heard  a  sudden  shriek  in 
the  night's  stillness,  and  did  not  know  where  it  was 
— in  my  breast  or  in  the  street.  "  Kee-vee  !  kee-vee  !  " 

"  My  God,  how  terrible!  "  I  would  have  drunk 
some  more  water,  but  by  then  it  was  fearful  to  open 
my  eyes  and  I  was  afraid  to  raise  my  head.  I  was 
possessed  by  unaccountable  animal  terror,  and  I 
cannot  understand  why  I  was  so  frightened:  was  it 
that  I  wanted  to  live,  or  that  some  new  unknown  pain 
was  in  store  for  me  ? 

Upstairs,  overhead,  some  one  moaned  or  laughed. 
...  I  listened.  Soon  afterwards  there  was  a  sound 
of  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  Some  one  came  hurriedly 
down,  then  went  up  again.  A  minute  later  there 
was  a  sound  of  steps  downstairs  again;  some  one 
stopped  near  my  door  and  listened. 

"  Who  is  there?  "  I  cried. 

The  door  opened.  I  boldly  opened  my  eyes,  and 
saw  my  wife.  Her  face  was  pale  and  her  eyes  were 
tear-stained. 

"You  are  not  asleep,  Nikolay  Stepanovitch  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  What  is  it?" 

"  For  God's  sake,  go  up  and  have  a  look  at  Liza; 
there  is  something  the  matter  with  her.  .  .   ." 

"  Very  good,  with  pleasure,"  I  muttered,  greatly 
relieved  at  not  being  alone.  "  Very  good,  this  min- 
ute. .  .  ." 


206  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

I  followed  my  wife,  heard  what  she  said  to  me, 
and  was  too  agitated  to  understand  a  word.  Patches 
of  light  from  her  candle  danced  about  the  stairs,  our 
long  shadows  trembled.  My  feet  caught  in  the 
skirts  of  my  dressing-gown;  I  gasped  for  breath,  and 
felt  as  though  something  were  pursuing  me  and  try- 
ing to  catch  me  from  behind. 

"  I  shall  die  on  the  spot,  here  on  the  staircase,"  I 
thought.  "  On  the  spot.  .  .  ."  But  we  passed  the 
staircase,  the  dark  corridor  with  the  Italian  windows, 
and  went  into  Liza's  room.  She  was  sitting  on  the 
bed  in  her  nightdress,  with  her  bare  feet  hanging 
down,  and  she  was  moaning. 

"  Oh,  my  God!  Oh,  my  God!"  she  was  mut- 
tering, screwing  up  her  eyes  at  our  candle.  "  I  can't 
bear  it." 

"  Liza,  my  child,"   I  said,  "  what  is  it?  " 

Seeing  me,  she  began  crying  out,  and  flung  herself 
on  my  neck. 

"  My  kind  papa  !  .  .  ."  she  sobbed  —  "  my  dear, 
good  papa  .  .  .  my  darling,  my  pet,  I  don't  know 
what  is  the  matter  with  me.   .   .   .   I  am  miserable !  " 

She  hugged  me,  kissed  me,  and  babbled  fond  words 
I  used  to  hear  from  her  when  she  was  a  child. 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  child.  God  be  with  you."  I 
said.  "  There  is  no  need  to  cry.  I  am  miserable, 
too." 

I  tried  to  tuck  her  in  :  mv  wife  gave  her  water,  and 
we  awkwardly  stumbled  bv  her  bedside;  mv  shoulder 
jostled  against  her  shoulder,  and  meanwhile  T  was 
thinking  how  we  used  to  give  our  children  their  bath 
together. 


A  Dreary  Story  207 

"Help  her!  help  her!"  my  wife  implored  me. 
"  Do  something!  " 

What  could  I  do?  I  could  do  nothing.  There 
was  some  load  on  the  girl's  heart;  but  I  did  not  un- 
derstand, I  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  could  only 
mutter: 

"  It's  nothing,  it's  nothing;  it  will  pass.  Sleep, 
sleep!" 

To  make  things  worse,  there  was  a  sudden  sound 
of  dogs  howling,  at  first  subdued  and  uncertain,  then 
loud,  two  dogs  howling  together.  I  had  never  at- 
tached significance  to  such  omens  as  the  howling  of 
dogs  or  the  shrieking  of  owls,  but  on  that  occasion  it 
sent  a  pang  to  my  heart,  and  I  hastened  to  explain 
the  howl  to  myself. 

"  It's  nonsense,"  I  thought,  "  the  influence  of  one 
organism  on  another.  The  intensely  strained  con- 
dition of  my  nerves  has  infected  my  wife,  Liza,  the 
dog  —  that  is  all.  .  .  .  Such  infection  explains  pre- 
sentiments, forebodings.   .  .   ." 

When  a  little  later  I  went  back  to  my  room  to 
write  a  prescription  for  Liza,  I  no  longer  thought  I 
should  die  at  once,  but  only  had  such  a  weight,  such 
a  feeling  of  oppression  in  my  soul  that  I  felt  actually 
sorry  that  I  had  not  died  on  the  spot.  For  a  long 
time  I  stood  motionless  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
pondering  what  to  prescribe  for  Liza.  But  the 
moans  overhead  ceased,  and  I  decided  to  prescribe 
nothing,  and  yet  I  went  on  standing  there.  .   .   . 

There  was  a  deathlike  stillness,  such  a  stillness,  as 
some  author  has  expressed  it,  "  it  rang  in  one's  ears." 
Time  passed  slowly;  the  streaks  of  moonlight  on 


208  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  window-sill  did  not  'shift  their  position,  but 
seemed  as  though  frozen.  ...  It  was  still  some 
time  before  dawn. 

But  the  gate  in  the  fence  creaked,  some  one  stole 
in  and,  breaking  a  twig  from  one  of  those  scraggy 
trees,  cautiously  tapped  on  the  window  with  it. 

"  Nikolay  Stepanovitch,"  I  heard  a  whisper. 
"  Nikolay  Stepanovitch." 

I  opened  the  window,  and  fancied  I  was  dreaming: 
under  the  window,  huddled  against  the  wall,  stood 
a  woman  in  a  black  dress,  with  the  moonlight  bright 
upon  her,  looking  at  me  with  great  eyes.  Her  face 
was  pale,  stern,  and  weird-looking  in  the  moonlight, 
like  marble,  her  chin  was  quivering. 

"  It  is  I,"  she  said  —  "  I   .  .  .  Katya." 

In  the  moonlight  all  women's  eyes  look  big  and 
black,  all  people  look  taller  and  paler,  and  that  was 
probably  why  I  had  not  recognized  her  for  the  first 
minute. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Forgive  me !  "  she  said.  "  I  suddenly  felt  un- 
bearably miserable  ...  I  couldn't  stand  it,  so  came 
here.  There  was  a  light  in  your  window  and  .  .  . 
and  I  ventured  to  knock.  ...  I  beg  your  pardon. 
.  .  .  Ah!  if  you  knew  how  miserable  I  am!  What 
are  you  doing  just  now?  " 

II  Nothing.   ...   I  can't  sleep." 

"  I  had  a  feeling  that  there  was  something  wrong, 
but  that  is  nonsense." 

Her  brows  were  lifted,  her  eyes  shone  with  tears, 
and  her  whole  face  was  lighted  up  with  the  familiar 
look  of  trustfulness  which  I  had  not  seen  for  so  long. 


A  Dreary  Story  209 

11  Nikolay  Stepanovitch,"  she  said  imploringly, 
stretching  out  both  hands  to  me,  "  my  precious  friend, 
I  beg  you,  I  implore  you.  ...  If  you  don't  de- 
spise my  affection  and  respect  for  you,  consent  to 
what  I  ask  of  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Take  my  money  from  me !  " 

"  Come !  what  an  idea !  What  do  I  want  with 
your  money?  " 

"  You'll  go  away  somewhere  for  your  health.  .  .  . 
You  ought  to  go  for  your  health.  Will  you  take  it? 
Yes?     Nikolay  Stepanovitch  darling,  yes?" 

She  looked  greedily  into  my  face  and  repeated: 
"Yes,  you  will  take  it?  " 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  won't  take  it  ..."  I  said. 
"  Thank  you." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  me  and  bowed  her  head. 
Probably  I  refused  her  in  a  tone  which  made  fur- 
ther conversation  about  money  impossible. 

"  Go  home  to  bed,"  I  said.  "  We  will  see  each 
other  tomorrow." 

"So  you  don't  consider  me  your  friend?"  she 
asked  dejectedly. 

"  I  don't  say  that.  But  your  money  would  be  no 
use  to  me  now." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  .  .  ."  she  said,  dropping  her 
voice  a  whole  octave.  "  I  understand  you  ...  to 
be  indebted  to  a  person  like  me  ...  a  retired  ac- 
tress.  .  .   .  But,  good-bye.   .   .   ." 

And  she  went  away  so  quickly  that  I  had  not  time 
even  to  say  good-bye. 


210  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

VI 

I  am  in  Harkov. 

As  it  would  be  useless  to  contend  against  my  pres- 
ent mood  and,  indeed,  beyond  my  power,  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  that  the  last  days  of  my  life  shall 
at  least  be  irreproachable  externally.  If  I  am  unjust 
in  regard  to  my  wife  and  daughter,  which  I  fully  rec- 
ognize, I  will  try  and  do  as  she  wishes;  since  she 
wants  me  to  go  to  Harkov,  I  go  to  Harkov.  Be- 
sides, I  have  become  of  late  so  indifferent  to  every- 
thing that  it  is  really  all  the  same  to  me  where  I  go, 
to  Harkov,  or  to  Paris,  or  to  Berditchev. 

I  arrived  here  at  midday,  and  have  put  up  at  the 
hotel  not  far  from  the  cathedral.  The  train  was 
jolting,  there  were  draughts,  and  now  I  am  sitting  on 
my  bed,  holding  my  head  and  expecting  tic  doulou- 
reux. I  ought  to  have  gone  today  to  see  some  pro- 
fessors of  my  acquaintance,  but  I  have  neither 
strength  nor  inclination. 

The  old  corridor  attendant  comes  in  and  asks 
whether  I  have  brought  my  bed-linen.  I  detain  him 
for  five  minutes,  and  put  several  questions  to  him 
about  Gnekker,  on  whose  account  I  have  come  here. 
The  attendant  turns  out  to  be  a  native  of  Harkov; 
he  knows  the  town  like  the  fingers  of  his  hand,  but 
does  not  remember  any  household  of  the  surname  of 
Gnekker.  I  question  him  about  the  estate  —  the 
same  answer. 

The  clock  in  the  corridor  strikes  one,  then  two, 
then  three.  .  .  .  These  last  months  in  which  I  am 


A  Dreary  Story  21 1 

waiting  for  death  seem  much  longer  than  the  whole 
of  my  life.  And  I  have  never  before  been  so  ready 
to  resign  myself  to  the  slowness  of  time  as  now.  In 
the  old  days,  when  one  sat  in  the  station  and  waited 
for  a  train,  or  presided  in  an  examination-room,  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  would  seem  an  eternity.  Now  I 
can  sit  all  night  on  my  bed  without  moving,  and  quite 
unconcernedly  reflect  that  tomorrow  will  be  followed 
by  another  night  as  long  and  colourless,  and  the  day 
after  tomorrow. 

In  the  corridor  it  strikes  five,  six,  seven.  ...  It 
grows  dark. 

There  is  a  dull  pain  in  my  cheek,  the  tic  begin- 
ning. To  occupy  myself  with  thoughts,  I  go  back  to 
my  old  point  of  view,  when  I  was  not  so  indifferent, 
and  ask  myself  why  I,  a  distinguished  man,  a  privy 
councillor,  am  sitting  in  this  little  hotel  room,  on  this 
bed  with  the  unfamiliar  grey  quilt.  Why  am  I  look- 
ing at  that  cheap  tin  washing-stand  and  listening  to 
the  whirr  of  the  wretched  clock  in  the  corridor?  Is 
all  this  in  keeping  with  my  fame  and  my  lofty  posi- 
tion? And  I  answer  these  questions  with  a  jeer.  I 
am  amused  by  the  naivete  with  which  I  used  in  my 
youth  to  exaggerate  the  value  of  renown  and  of  the 
exceptional  position  which  celebrities  are  supposed  to 
enjoy.  I  am  famous,  my  name  is  pronounced  with 
reverence,  my  portrait  has  been  both  in  the  Niva 
and  in  the  Illustrated  News  of  the  World;  I  have 
read  my  biography  even  in  a  German  magazine. 
And  what  of  all  that?  Here  I  am  sitting  utterly 
alone  in  a  strange  town,  on  a  strange  bed,  rubbing 
my  aching  cheek  with  my  hand.  .  .  .  Domestic  wor- 


212  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

ries,  the  hard-heartedness  of  creditors,  the  rudeness 
of  the  railway  servants,  the  inconveniences  of  the 
passport  system,  the  expensive  and  unwholesome 
food  in  the  refreshment-rooms,  the  general  rudeness 
and  coarseness  in  social  intercourse  —  all  this,  and  a 
great  deal  more  which  would  take  too  long  to  reckon 
up,  affects  me  as  much  as  any  working  man  who  is 
famous  only  in  his  alley.  In  what  way  does  my  ex- 
ceptional position  find  expression?  Admitting  that 
I  am  celebrated  a  thousand  times  over,  that  I  am  a 
hero  of  whom  my  country  is  proud.  They  publish 
bulletins  of  my  illness  in  every  paper,  letters  of  sym- 
pathy come  to  me  by  post  from  my  colleagues,  my 
pupils,  the  general  public;  but  all  that  does  not  pre- 
vent me  from  dying  in  a  strange  bed,  in  misery,  in 
utter  loneliness.  Of  course,  no  one  is  to  blame  for 
that;  but  I  in  my  foolishness  dislike  my  popularity. 
I  feel  as  though  it  had  cheated  me. 

At  ten  o'clock  I  fall  asleep,  and  in  spite  of  the  tic 
I  sleep  soundly,  and  should  have  gone  on  sleeping 
if  I  had  not  been  awakened.  Soon  after  one  came  a 
sudden  knock  at  the  door. 

"Who  is  there?" 

"  A  telegram." 

"  You  might  have  waited  till  tomorrow,"  I  say 
angrily,  taking  the  telegram  from  the  attendant. 
"  Now  I  shall  not  get  to  sleep  again." 

"  I  am  sorry.  Your  light  was  burning,  so  I 
thought  you  were  not  asleep." 

I  tear  open  the  telegram  and  look  first  at  the  signa- 
ture.     From  my  wife. 

"What  does  she  want?  " 


A  Dreary  Story  213 

11  Gnekker  was  secretly  married  to  Liza  yesterday. 
Return." 

I  read  the  telegram,  and  my  dismay  does  not  last 
long.  I  am  dismayed,  not  by  what  Liza  and 
Gnekker  have  done,  but  by  the  indifference  with 
which  I  hear  of  their  marriage.  They  say  philo- 
sophers and  the  truly  wise  are  indifferent.  It  is 
false:  indifference  is  the  paralysis  of  the  soul;  it  is 
premature  death. 

I  go  to  bed  again,  and  begin  trying  to  think  of 
something  to  occupy  my  mind.  What  am  I  to  think 
about?  L  feel  as  though  everything  had  been 
thought  over  already  and  there  is  nothing  which 
could  hold  my  attention  now. 

When  daylight  comes  I  sit  up  in  bed  with  my  arms 
round  my  knees,  and  to  pass  the  time  I  try  to  know 
myself.  "  Know  thyself "  is  excellent  and  useful 
advice;  it  is  only  a  pity  that  the  ancients  never 
thought  to  indicate  the  means  of  following  this  pre- 
cept. 

When  I  have  wanted  to  understand  somebody  or 
myself  I  have  considered,  not  the  actions,  in  which 
everything  is  relative,  but  the  desires. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  want,  and  I  will  tell  you  what 
manner  of  man  you  are." 

And  now  I  examine  myself:  what  do  I  want? 

I  want  our  wives,  our  children,  our  friends,  our 
pupils,  to  love  in  us,  not  our  fame,  not  the  brand  and 
not  the  lakgl,  but  to  love  us  as  ordinary  men.  Any- 
thing else?  I  should  like  to  have  had  helpers  and 
successors.     Anything  else?     I  should  like  to  wake 


214  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

up  in  a  hundred  years'  time  and  to  have  just  a  peep 
out  of  one  eye  at  what  is  happeneing  in  science.  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  lived  another  ten  years. 
.  .  .  What  further?  Why,  nothing  further.  I 
think  and  think,  and  can  think  of  nothing  more. 
And  however  much  I  might  think,  and  however  far 
my  thoughts  might  travel,  it  is  clear  to  me  that  there 
is  nothing  vital,  nothing  of  great  importance  in  my 
desires.  In  my  passion  for  science,  in  my  desire  to 
live,  in  this  sitting  on  a  strange  bed,  and  in  this  striv- 
ing to  know  myself — in  all  the  thoughts,  feelings, 
and  ideas  I  form  about  everything,  there  is  no  com- 
mon bond  to  connect  it  all  into  one  whole.  Every 
feeling  and  every  thought  exists  apart  in  me;  and  in 
all  my  criticisms  of  science,  the  theatre,  literature, 
my  pupils,  and  in  all  the  pictures  my  imagination 
draws,  even  the  most  skilful  analyst  could  not  find 
what  is  called  a  general  idea,  or  the  god  of  a  living 
man. 

And  if  there  is  not  that,  then  there  is  nothing. 

In  a  state  so  poverty-stricken,  a  serious  ailment, 
the  fear  of  death,  the  influences  of  circumstance  and 
men  were  enough  to  turn  upside  down  and  scatter 
in  fragments  all  which  I  had  once  looked  upon  as 
my  theory  of  life,  and  in  which  I  had  seen  the  mean- 
ing and  joy  of  my  existence.  So  there  is  nothing 
surprising  in  the  fact  that  I  have  over-shadowed  the 
last  months  of  my  life  with  thoughts  and  feelings  only 
worthy  of  a  slave  and  barbarian,  and  that  now  I  am 
indifferent  and  take  no  heed  of  the  dawn.  When  a 
man  has  not  in  him  what  is  loftier  and  mightier  than 
all  external  impressions  a  bad  cold  is  really  enough  to 


A  Dreary  Story  215 

upset  his  equilibrium  and  make  him  begin  to  see  an 
owl  in  every  bird,  to  hear  a  dog  howling  in  every 
sound.  And  all  his  pessimism  or  optimism  with  his 
thoughts  great  and  small  have  at  such  times  signifi- 
cance as  symptoms  and  nothing  more. 

I  am  vanquished.  If  it  is  so,  it  is  useless  to  think, 
it  is  useless  to  talk.  I  will  sit  and  wait  in  silence  for 
what  is  to  come. 

In  the  morning  the  corridor  attendant  brings  me 
tea  and  a  copy  of  the  local  newspaper.  Mechani- 
cally I  read  the  advertisements  on  the  first  page,  the 
leading  article,  the  extracts  from  the  newspapers 
and  journals,  the  chronicle  of  events.  ...  In  the 
latter  I  find,  among  other  things,  the  following  para- 
graph: "Our  distinguished  savant,  Professor  Nik- 
olay  Stepanovitch  So-and-so,  arrived  yesterday  in 
Harkov,  and  is  staying  in  the  So-and-so  Hotel." 

Apparently,  illustrious  names  are  created  to  live 
on  their  own  account,  apart  from  those  that  bear 
them.  Now  my  name  is  promenading  tranquilly 
about  Harkov;  in  another  three  months,  printed  in 
gold  letters  on  my  monument,  it  will  shine  bright 
as  the  sun  itself,  while  I  shall  be  already  under  the 
moss. 

A  light  tap  at  the  door.     Somebody  wants  me. 

"Who  is  there?     Come  in." 

The  door  opens,  and  I  step  back  surprised  and 
hurriedly  wrap  my  dressing-gown  round  me.  Be- 
fore me  stands  Katya. 

"  How  do  you  do?  "  she  says,  breathless  with  run- 
ning upstairs.  "You  didn't  expect  me?  I  have 
come  here,  too.  ...  I  have  come,  too !  " 


216  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

She  sits  down  and  goes  on,  hesitating  and  not 
looking  at  me. 

"Why  don't  you  speak  to  me?  I  have  come, 
too  .  .  .  today.  ...  I  found  out  that  you  were 
in  this  hotel,  and  have  come  to  you." 

"  Very  glad  to  see  you,"  I  say,  shrugging  my  shoul- 
ders, "  but  I  am  surprised.  You  seem  to  have 
dropped  from  the  skies.  What  have  you  come 
for?" 

"  Oh  .   .   .   I've  simply  come." 

Silence.  Suddenly  she  jumps  up  impulsively  and 
comes  to  me. 

"  Nikolay  Stepanovitch,"  she  says,  turning  pale 
and  pressing  her  hands  on  her  bosom  —  "  Nikolay 
Stepanovitch,  I  cannot  go  on  living  like  this  I  I  can- 
not! For  God's  sake  tell  me  quickly,  this  minute, 
what  I  am  to  do!     Tell  me,  what  am  I  to  do?  " 

"  What  can  I  tell  you?  "  I  ask  in  perplexity.  "  I 
can  do  nothing." 

11  Tell  me,  I  beseech  you,"  she  goes  on,  breathing 
hard  and  trembling  all  over.  "  I  swear  that  I  can- 
not go  on  living  like  this.     It's  too  much  for  me !  " 

She  sinks  on  a  chair  and  begins  sobbing.  She 
flings  her  head  back,  wrings  her  hands,  taps  with  her 
feet;  her  hat  falls  off  and  hangs  bobbing  on  its  elastic; 
her  hair  is  ruffled. 

"  Help  me !  help  me !  "  she  implores  me.  "  I  can- 
not go  on !  " 

She  takes  her  handkerchief  out  of  her  travelling- 
bag,  and  with  it  pulls  out  several  letters,  which  fall 
from  her  lap  to  the  floor.  I  pick  them  up,  and  on 
one  of  them  I  recognize  the  handwriting  of  Mihail 


A  Dreary  Story  217 

Fyodorovitch  and  accidentally  read  a  bit  of  a  word 
"  passionat  .  .   ." 

"  There  is  nothing  I  can  tell  yon,  Katya,"  I  say. 

"  Help  me !  "  she  sobs,  clutching  at  my  hand  and 
kissing  it.  "  You  are  my  father,  you  know,  my  only 
friend!  You  are  clever,  educated;  you  have  lived 
so  long;  you  have  been  a  teacher!  Tell  me,  what 
am  I  to  do?" 

"  Upon  my  word,  Katya,  I  don't  know.   .   .   ." 

I  am  utterly  at  a  loss  and  confused,  touched  by  her 
sobs,  and  hardly  able  to  stand. 

"  Let  us  have  lunch,  Katya,"  I  say,  with  a  forced 
smile.      "  Give  over  crying." 

And  at  once  I  add  in  a  sinking  voice : 

"  I  shall  soon  be  gone,  Katya.  .  .  ." 

"Only  one  word,  only  one  word!"  she  weeps, 
stretching  out  her  hands  to  me. 

"What  am  I  to  do?" 

"  You  are  a  queer  girl,  really  .  .  ."I  mutter.  "  I 
don't  understand  it!  So  sensible,  and  all  at  once 
.   .  .  crying  your  eyes  out.   .  .   ." 

A  silence  follows.  Katya  straightens  her  hair, 
puts  on  her  hat,  then  crumples  up  the  letters  and  stuffs 
them  in  her  bag  —  and  all  this  deliberately,  in  si- 
lence. Her  face,  her  bosom,  and  her  gloves  are  wet 
with  tears,  but  her  expression  now  is  cold  and  for- 
bidding. ...  I  look  at  her,  and  feel  ashamed  that 
I  am  happier  than  she.  The  absence  of  what  my 
philosophic  colleagues  call  a  general  idea  I  have  de- 
tected in  myself  only  just  before  death,  in  the  decline 
of  my  days,  while  the  soul  of  this  poor  girl  has  known 
and  will  know  no  refuge  all  her  life,  all  her  life! 


2l8  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

11  Let  us  have  lunch,  Katya,"  I  say. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  answers  coldly. 

Another  minute  passes  in  silence. 

"  I  don't  like  Harkov,"  I  say;  "  it's  so  grey  here 
—  such  a  grey  town." 

"  Yes,  perhaps.  .  .  .  It's  ugly.  I  am  here  not 
for  long,  passing  through.     I  am  going  on  today." 

"Where?" 

"  To  the  Crimea   .   .   .  that  is,  to  the  Caucasus." 

"Oh!     For  long?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

Katya  gets  up,  and,  with  a  cold  smile,  holds  out 
her  hand  without  looking  at  me. 

I  want  to  ask  her,  "  Then,  you  won't  be  at  my 
funeral?  "  but  she  does  not  look  at  me;  her  hand  is 
cold  and,  as  it  were,  strange.  I  escort  her  to  the 
door  in  silence.  She  goes  out,  walks  down  the  long 
corridor  without  looking  back;  she  knows  that  I  am 
looking  after  her,  and  most  likely  she  will  look  back 
at  the  turn. 

No,  she  did  not  look  back.  I've  seen  her  black 
dress  for  the  last  time :  her  steps  have  died  away. 
Farewell,  my  treasure ! 


THE  PRIVY  COUNCILLOR 


THE  PRIVY  COUNCILLOR 

At  the  beginning  of  April  in  1870  my  mother,  Klav- 
dia  Arhipovna,  the  widow  of  a  lieutenant,  received 
from  her  brother  Ivan,  a  privy  councillor  in  Peters- 
burg, a  letter  in  which,  among  other  things,  this  pas- 
sage occurred:  "  My  liver  trouble  forces  me  to  spend 
every  summer  abroad,  and  as  I  have  not  at  the  mo- 
ment the  money  in  hand  for  a  trip  to  Marienbad,  it 
is  very  possible,  dear  sister,  that  I  may  spend  this 
summer  with  you  at  Kotchuevko.   .   .   ." 

On  reading  the  letter  my  mother  turned  pale  and 
began  trembling  all  over;  then  an  expression  of  min- 
gled tears  and  laughter  came  into  her  face.  She 
began  crying  and  laughing.  This  conflict  of  tears 
and  laughter  always  reminds  me  of  the  flickering  and 
spluttering  of  a  brightly  burning  candle  when  one 
sprinkles  it  with  water.  Reading  the  letter  once 
more,  mother  called  together  all  the  household,  and 
in  a  voice  broken  with  emotion  began  explaining  to 
us  that  there  had  been  four  Gundasov  brothers:  one 
Gundasov  had  died  as  a  baby;  another  had  gone  to 
the  war,  and  he,  too,  was  dead;  the  third,  without 
offence  to  him  be  it  said,  was  an  actor;  the  fourth  .  .  . 

"  The  fourth  has  risen  far  above  us,"  my  mother 
brought  out  tearfully.  "  My  own  brother,  we  grew 
up  together;  and  I  am  all  of  a  tremble,  all  of  a, 

221 


222  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

tremble  !  .  .  .  A  privy  councillor  with  the  rank  of  a 
general!  How  shall  I  meet  him,  my  angel  brother? 
What  can  I,  a  foolish,  uneducated  woman,  talk  to 
him  about?  It's  fifteen  years  since  I've  seen  him! 
Andryushenka,"  my  mother  turned  to  me,  "  you  must 
rejoice,  little  stupid  !  It's  a  piece  of  luck  for  you  that 
God  is  sending  him  to  us !  " 

After  we  had  heard  a  detailed  history  of  the 
Gundasovs,  there  followed  a  fuss  and  bustle  in  the 
place  such  as  I  had  been  accustomed  to  see  only  be- 
fore Christmas  and  Easter.  The  sky  above  and  the 
water  in  the  river  were  all  that  escaped;  everything 
else  was  subjected  to  a  merciless  cleansing,  scrubbing, 
painting.  If  the  sky  had  been  lower  and  smaller  and 
the  river  had  not  flowed  so  swiftly,  they  would  have 
scoured  them,  too,  with  bath-brick  and  rubbed  them, 
too,  with  tow.  Our  walls  were  as  white  as  snow,  but 
they  were  whitewashed;  the  floors  were  bright  and 
shining,  but  they  were  washed  everv  day.  The  cat 
Bobtail  (as  a  small  child  I  had  cut  off  a  good  quarter 
of  his  tail  with  the  knife  used  for  chooping  the  sugar, 
and  that  was  why  he  was  called  Bobtail)  was  car- 
ried off  to  the  kitchen  and  put  in  charge  of  Anisya; 
Fedka  was  told  that  if  any  of  the  dogs  came  near  the 
front-door  "  God  would  punish  him."  But  no  one 
was  so  badly  treated  as  the  poor  sofas,  easy-chairs, 
and  rugs!  They  had  never  before  been  so  violently 
beaten  as  on  this  occasion  in  preparation  for  our 
visitor.  My  pigeons  took  fright  at  the  loud  thud 
of  the  sticks,  and  were  continually  flying  up  into  the 
sky. 

The  tailor  Spiridon,  the  only  tailor  in  the  whole 


The  Privy  Councillor  223 

district  who  ventured  to  make  for  the  gentry,  came 
over  from  Xovostroevka.  He  was  a  hard-working 
capable  man  who  did  not  drink  and  was  not  without 
a  certain  fancy  and  feeling  for  form,  but  yet  he  was 
an  atrocious  tailor.  His  work  was  ruined  by  hesi- 
tation. .  .  .  The  idea  that  his  cut  was  not  fashion- 
able enough  made  him  alter  everything  half  a  dozen 
times,  walk  all  the  way  to  the  town  simply  to  study 
the  dandies,  and  in  the  end  dress  us  in  suits  that  even 
a  caricaturist  would  have  called  outre  and  grotesque. 
We  cut  a  dash  in  impossibly  narrow  trousers  and  in 
such  short  jackets  that  we  always  felt  quite  abashed 
in  the  presence  of  young  ladies. 

This  Spiridon  spent  a  long  time  taking  my  meas- 
ure. He  measured  me  all  over  lengthways  and 
crossways,  as  though  he  meant  to  put  hoops  round 
me  like  a  barrel;  then  he  spent  a  long  time  noting 
down  my  measurements  with  a  thick  pencil  on  a  bit 
of  paper,  and  ticked  off  all  the  measurements  with 
triangular  signs.  When  he  had  finished  with  me  he 
set  to  work  on  my  tutor,  Yegor  Alexyevitch  Pobye- 
dimsky.  My  beloved  tutor  was  then  at  the  stage 
when  young  men  watch  the  growth  of  their  mous- 
tache and  are  critical  of  their  clothes,  and  so  you  can 
imagine  the  devout  awe  with  which  Spiridon  ap- 
proached him.  Yegor  Alexyevitch  had  to  throw 
back  his  head,  to  straddle  his  legs  like  an  inverted  V, 
first  lift  up  his  arms,  then  let  them  fall.  Spiridon 
measured  him  several  times,  walking  round  him 
during  the  process  like  a  love-sick  pigeon  round  its 
mate,  going  down  on  one  knee,  bending  double.  .  .  . 
My  mother,  weary,  exhausted  by  her  exertions  and 


224  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

heated  by  ironing,  watched  these  lengthy  proceed- 
ings, and  said: 

"  Mind  now,  Spiridon,  you  will  have  to  answer  for 
it  to  God  if  you  spoil  the  cloth!  And  it  will  be  the 
worse  for  you  if  you  don't  make  them  fit!  " 

Mother's  words  threw  Spiridon  first  into  a  fever, 
then  into  a  perspiration,  for  he  was  convinced  that 
he  would  not  make  them  fit.  He  received  one  rouble 
twenty  kopecks  for  making  my  suit,  and  for  Pobye- 
dimsky's  two  roubles,  but  we  provided  the  cloth,  the 
lining,  and  the  buttons.  The  price  cannot  be  con- 
sidered excessive,  as  Novostroevka  was  about  seven 
miles  from  us,  and  the  tailor  came  to  fit  us  four  times. 
When  he  came  to  try  the  things  on  and  we  squeezed 
ourselves  into  the  tight  trousers  and  jackets  adorned 
with  basting  threads,  mother  always  frowned  con- 
temptuously and  expressed  her  surprise: 

"  Goodness  knows  what  the  fashions  are  coming  to 
nowadays  !  I  am  postively  ashamed  to  look  at  them. 
If  brother  were  not  used  to  Petersburg  I  would  not 
get  you  fashionable  clothes!  " 

Spiridon,  relieved  that  the  blame  was  thrown  on 
the  fashion  and  not  on  him,  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  sighed,  as  though  to  say: 

"  There's  no  help  for  it ;  it's  the  spirit  of  the  age  !  " 

The  excitement  with  which  we  awaited  the  arrival 
of  our  guest  can  only  be  compared  with  the  strained 
suspense  with  which  spiritualists  wait  from  minute  to 
minute  the  appearance  of  a  ghost.  Mother  went 
about  with  a  sick  headache,  and  was  continually 
melting  into  tears.  I  lost  my  appetite,  slept  badly, 
and  did  not  learn  my  lessons.     Even  in  my  dreams 


The  Privy  Councillor  225 

I  was  haunted  by  an  impatient  longing  to  see  a  gen- 
eral —  that  is,  a  man  with  epaulettes  and  an  embroid- 
ered collar  sticking  up  to  his  ears,  and  with  a  naked 
sword  in  his  hands,  exactly  like  the  one  who  hung 
over  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room  and  glared  with 
terrible  black  eyes  at  everybody  who  dared  to  look 
at  him.  Pobyedimsky  was  the  only  one  who  felt 
himself  in  his  element.  He  was  neither  terrified  nor 
delighted,  and  merely  from  time  to  time,  when  he 
heard  the  history  of  the  Gundasov  family,  said: 

"  Yes,  it  will  be  pleasant  to  have  some  one  fresh 
to  talk  to." 

My  tutor  was  looked  upon  among  us  as  an  excep- 
tional nature.  He  was  a  young  man  of  twenty,  with 
a  pimply  face,  shaggy  locks,  a  low  forehead,  and 
an  unusually  long  nose.  His  nose  was  so  big  that 
when  he  wanted  to  look  close  at  anything  he  had  to 
put  his  head  on  one  side  like  a  bird.  To  our  think- 
ing, there  was  not  a  man  in  the  province  cleverer, 
more  cultivated,  or  more  stylish.  He  had  left  the 
high-school  in  the  class  next  to  the  top,  and  had 
then  entered  a  veterinary  college,  from  which  he  was 
expelled  before  the  end  of  the  first  half-year.  The 
reason  of  his  expulsion  he  carefully  concealed,  which 
enabled  any  one  who  wished  to  do  so  to  look  upon 
my  instructor  as  an  injured  and  to  some  extent  a  mys- 
terious person.  He  spoke  little,  and  only  of  intel- 
lectual subjects;  he  ate  meat  during  the  fasts,  and 
looked  with  contempt  and  condescension  on  the  life 
going  on  around  him,  which  did  not  prevent  him, 
however,  from  taking  presents,  such  as  suits  of 
clothes,  from  my  mother,  and  drawing  funny  faces 


226  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

with  red  teeth  on  my  kites.  Mother  disliked  him  for 
his  "  pride,"  but  stood  in  awe  of  his  cleverness. 

Our  visitor  did  not  keep  us  long  waiting.  At 
the  beginning  of  May  two  wagon-loads  of  big  boxes 
arrived  from  the  station.  These  boxes  looked  so 
majestic  that  the  drivers  instinctively  took  off  their 
hats  as  they  lifted  them  down. 

"  There  must  be  uniforms  and  gunpowder  in  those 
boxes,"  I  thought. 

Why  "  gunpowder  "  ?  Probably  the  conception 
of  a  general  was  closely  connected  in  my  mind  with 
cannons  and  gunpowder. 

When  I  woke  up  on  the  morning  of  the  tenth  of 
May,  nurse  told  me  in  a  whisper  that  "  my  uncle  had 
come."  I  dressed  rapidly,  and,  washing  after  a 
fashion,  flew  out  of  my  bedroom  without  saying  my 
prayers.  In  the  vestibule  I  came  upon  a  tall,  solid 
gentleman  with  fashionable  whiskers  and  a  foppish- 
looking  overcoat.  Half  dead  with  devout  awe,  I 
went  up  to  him  and,  remembering  the  ceremonial 
mother  had  impressed  upon  me,  I  scraped  my  foot 
before  him,  made  a  very  low  bow,  and  craned  for- 
ward to  kiss  his  hand;  but  the  gentleman  did  not  al- 
low me  to  kiss  his  hand :  he  informed  me  that  he  was 
not  my  uncle,  but  my  uncle's  footman,  Pyotr.  The 
appearance  of  this  Pyotr,  far  better  dressed  than 
Pobyedimsky  or  me,  excited  in  me  the  utmost  aston- 
ishment, which,  to  tell  the  truth,  has  lasted  to  this 
day.  Can  such  dignified,  respectable  people  with 
stern  and  intellectual  faces  really  be  footmen?  And 
what  for? 


The  Privy  Councillor  227 

Pyotr  told  me  that  my  uncle  was  in  the  garden 
with  my  mother.     I  rushed  into  the  garden. 

Nature,  knowing  nothing  of  the  history  of  the 
Gundasov  family  and  the  rank  of  my  uncle,  felt  far 
more  at  ease  and  unconstrained  than  I.  There  was 
a  clamour  going  on  in  the  garden  such  as  one  only 
hears  at  fairs.  Masses  of  starlings  flitting  through 
the  air  and  hopping  about  the  walks  were  noisily  chat- 
tering as  they  hunted  for  cockchafers.  There  were 
swarms  of  sparrows  in  the  lilac-bushes,  which  threw 
their  tender,  fragrant  blossoms  straight  in  one's  face. 
Wherever  one  turned,  from  every  direction  came  the 
note  of  the  golden  oriole  and  the  shrill  cry  of  the 
hoopoe  and  the  red-legged  falcon.  At  anv  other 
time  I  should  have  begun  chasing  dragon-flies  or 
throwing  stones  at  a  crow  which  was  sitting  on  a  low 
mound  under  an  asoen-tree,  with  its  blunt  beak 
turned  away;  but  at  that  moment  1  was  in  no  mood 
for  mischief.  My  heart  was  throbbing,  and  T  felt  a 
cold  sinking  at  mv  stomach;  I  was  preparing  mvself 
to  confront  a  gentleman  with  epaulettes,  with  a  naked 
sword,  and  with  terrible  eves! 

But  imagine  my  disaortointment !  A  dapper  little 
foppish  gentleman  in  white  silk  trousers,  with  a  white 
cap  on  his  head,  was  walking  beside  my  mother  in  the 
garden.  With  his  hands  behind  him  and  his  head 
thrown  back,  every  now  and  then  running  on  ahead 
of  mother,  he  looked  quite  young.  There  was  so 
much  life  and  movement  in  his  whole  nVure  that  I 
could  only  detect  the  treacherv  of  age  when  T  came 
clos^  up  behind  and  saw  beneath  his  cap  a  fringe  of 


228  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

close-cropped  silver  hair.  Instead  of  the  staid  dig- 
nity and  stolidity  of  a  general,  I  saw  an  almost  school- 
boyish  nimbleness;  instead  of  a  collar  sticking  up  to 
his  ears,  an  ordinary  light  blue  necktie.  Mother 
and  my  uncle  were  walking  in  the  avenue  talking  to- 
gether. I  went  softly  up  to  them  from  behind,  and 
waited  for  one  of  them  to  look  round. 

"  What  a  delightful  place  you  have  here,  Klav- 
dia !  "  said  my  uncle.  "  How  charming  and  lovely 
it  is!  Had  I  known  before  that  you  had  such  a 
charming  place,  nothing  would  have  induced  me  to 
go  abroad  all  these  years." 

My  uncle  stooped  down  rapidly  and  sniffed  at  a 
tulip.  Everything  he  saw  moved  him  to  rapture 
and  excitement,  as  though  he  had  never  been  in  a 
garden  on  a  sunny  day  before.  The  queer  man 
moved  about  as  though  he  were  on  springs,  and  chat- 
tered incessantly,  without  allowing  mother  to  utter 
a  single  word.  All  of  a  sudden  Pobyedimsky  came 
into  sight  from  behind  an  elder-tree  at  the  turn  of  the 
avenue.  His  appearance  was  so  unexpected  that  my 
uncle  positively  started  and  stepped  back  a  pace. 
On  this  occasion  my  tutor  was  attired  in  his  best 
Inverness  cape  with  sleeves,  in  which,  especially  back- 
view,  he  looked  remarkably  like  a  windmill.  He 
had  a  solemn  and  majestic  air.  Pressing  his  hat 
to  his  bosom  in  Spanish  style,  he  took  a  step  towards 
my  uncle  and  made  a  bow  such  as  a  marquis  makes 
in  a  melodrama,  bending  forward,  a  little  to  one  side. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  present  myself  to  your 
high  excellency,"  he  said  aloud:  "the  teacher  and 
instructor  of  your  nephew,  formerly  a  pupil  of  the 


The  Privy  Councillor  229 

veterinary  institute,  and  a  nobleman  by  birth,  Pobye- 
dimsky !  " 

This  politeness  on  the  part  of  my  tutor  pleased  my 
mother  very  much.  She  gave  a  smile,  and  waited 
in  thrilled  suspense  to  hear  what  clever  thing  he 
would  say  next;  but  my  tutor,  expecting  his  dignified 
address  to  be  answered  with  equal  dignity  —  that  is, 
that  my  uncle  would  say  "  H'm!  "  like  a  general  and 
hold  out  two  fingers  —  was  greatly  confused  and 
abashed  when  the  latter  laughed  genially  and  shook 
hands  with  him.  He  muttered  something  incoher- 
ent, cleared  his  throat,  and  walked  away. 

"  Come!  isn't  that  charming?  "  laughed  my  uncle. 
"  Just  look!  he  has  made  his  little  flourish  and  thinks 
he's  a  very  clever  fellow  !  I  do  like  that  —  upon  my 
soul  I  do !  What  youthful  aplomb,  what  life  in  that 
foolish  flourish!  And  what  boy  is  this?  "  he  asked, 
suddenly  turning  and  looking  at  me. 

"  That  is  my  Andryushenka,"  my  mother  intro- 
duced me,  flushing  crimson.     "  My  consolation.  .  .  ." 

I  made  a  scrape  with  my  foot  on  the  sand  and 
dropped  a  low  bow. 

"  A  fine  fellow  ...  a  fine  fellow  .  .  ."  muttered 
my  uncle,  taking  his  hand  from  my  lips  and  stroking 
me  on  the  head.  "So  your  name  is  Andrusha? 
Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  H'm !  .  .  .  upon  my  soul !  .  .  .  Do 
you  learn  lessons?  " 

My  mother,  exaggerating  and  embellishing  as  all 
mothers  do,  began  to  describe  my  achievements  in 
the  sciences  and  the  excellence  of  my  behaviour,  and 
I  walked  ro-.nd  my  uncle  and,  following  the  cere- 
monial laid  down  for  me,  I  continued  making  low 


230  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

bows.  Then  my  mother  began  throwing  out  hints 
that  with  my  remarkable  abilities  it  would  not  be 
amiss  for  me  to  get  a  government  nomination  to  the 
cadet  school;  but  at  the  point  when  I  was  to  have 
burst  into  tears  and  begged  for  my  uncle's  protection, 
my  uncle  suddenly  stopped  and  flung  up  his  hands  in 
amazement. 

"  My  goo-oodness!     What's  that?  "  he  asked. 

Tatyana  Ivanovna,  the  wife  of  our  bailiff,  Fyodor 
Petrovna,  was  coming  towards  us.  She  was  carry- 
ing a  starched  white  petticoat  and  a  long  ironing- 
board.  As  she  passed  us  she  looked  shyly  at  the  vis- 
itor through  her  eyelashes  and  flushed  crimson. 

"  Wonders  will  never  cease  .  .  ."  my  uncle  fil- 
tered through  his  teeth,  looking  after  her  with 
friendly  interest.  "  You  have  a  fresh  surprise  at 
every  step,  sister  .   .   .  upon  my  soul!  " 

"  She's  a  beauty  .  .  ."  said  mother.  "  They 
chose  her  as  a  bride  for  Fyodor,  though  she  lived 
over  seventy  miles  from  here.   .   .   ." 

Not  every  one  would  have  called  Tatyana  a 
beauty.  She  was  a  plump  little  woman  of  twenty, 
with  black  eyebrows  and  a  graceful  figure,  always 
rosy  and  attractive-looking,  but  in  her  face  and  in  her 
whole  person  there  was  not  one  striking  feature,  not 
one  bold  line  to  catch  the  eye,  as  though  nature  had 
lacked  inspiration  and  confidence  when  creating  her. 
Tatyana  Ivanovna  was  shy,  bashful,  and  modest  in 
her  behaviour;  she  moved  softly  and  smoothly,  said 
little,  seldom  laughed,  and  her  whole  life  was  as 
regular  as  her  face  and  as  flat  as  her  smooth,  tidy 
hair.     My  uncle  screwed  up  his  eyes  looking  after 


The  Privy  Councillor  231 

her,  and  smiled.  Mother  looked  intently  at  his  smil- 
ing face  and  grew  serious. 

"And  so,  brother,  you've  never  married!"  she 
sighed. 

"  No;  I've  not  married." 

"  Why  not?  "  asked  mother  softly. 

"  How  can  I  tell  you?  It  has  happened  so.  In 
my  youth  I  was  too  hard  at  work,  I  had  no  time  to 
live,  and  when  I  longed  to  live  —  I  looked  round  — 
and  there  I  had  fifty  years  on  my  back  already.  I 
was  too  late !  However,  talking  about  it  ...  is 
depressing." 

My  mother  and  my  uncle  both  sighed  at  once  and 
walked  on,  and  I  left  them  and  flew  off  to  find  my 
tutor,  that  I  might  share  my  impressions  with  him. 
Pobyedimsky  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  yard, 
looking  majestically  at  the  heavens. 

"  One  can  see  he  is  a  man  of  culture!  "  he  said, 
twisting  his  head  round.  "  I  hope  we  shall  get  on 
together." 

An  hour  later  mother  came  to  us. 

"  I  am  in  trouble,  my  dears!  "  she  began,  sighing. 
"  You  see  brother  has  brought  a  valet  with  him,  and 
the  valet,  God  bless  him,  is  not  one  you  can  put  in 
the  kitchen  or  in  the  hall;  we  must  give  him  a  room 
apart.  I  can't  think  what  I  am  to  do !  I  tell  you 
what,  children,  couldn't  you  move  out  somewhere  — 
to  Fyodor's  lodge,  for  instance  —  and  give  your 
room  to  the  valet?     What  do  you  say?  " 

We  gave  our  ready  consent,  for  living  in  the  lodge 
was  a  great  deal  more  free  than  in  the  house,  under 
mother's  eye. 


232  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  It's  a  nuisance,  and  that's  a  fact!  "  said  mother. 
"  Brother  says  he  won't  have  dinner  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  but  between  six  and  seven,  as  they  do  in 
Petersburg.  I  am  simply  distracted  with  worry! 
By  seven  o'clock  the  dinner  will  be  done  to  rags  in 
the  oven.  Really,  men  don't  understand  anything 
about  housekeeping,  though  they  have  so  much  intel- 
lect. Oh,  dear!  we  shall  have  to  cook  two  dinners 
every  day !  You  will  have  dinner  at  midday  as  be- 
fore, children,  while  your  poor  old  mother  has  to 
wait  till  seven,  for  the  sake  of  her  brother." 

Then  my  mother  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  bade  me  try 
and  please  my  uncle,  whose  coming  was  a  piece  of 
luck  for  me  for  which  we  must  thank  God,  and  hur- 
ried off  to  the  kitchen.  Pobyedimsky  and  I  moved 
into  the  lodge  the  same  day.  We  were  installed  in 
a  room  which  formed  the  passage  from  the  entry 
to  the  bailiff's  bedroom. 

Contrary  to  my  expectations,  life  went  on  just  as 
before,  drearily  and  monotonously,  in  spite  of  my 
uncle's  arrival  and  our  move  into  new  quarters.  We 
were  excused  lessons  "  on  account  of  the  visitor." 
Pobyedimsky,  who  never  read  anything  or  occupied 
himself  in  any  way,  spent  most  of  his  time  sitting  on 
his  bed,  with  his  long  nose  thrust  into  the  air,  think- 
ing. Sometimes  he  would  get  up,  try  on  his  new 
suit,  and  sit  down  again  to  relapse  into  contempla- 
tion and  silence.  Only  one  thing  worried  him,  the 
flies,  which  he  used  mercilessly  to  squash  between  his 
hands.  After  dinner  he  usually  "  rested,"  and  his 
snores  were  a  cause  of  annoyance  to  the  whole  house- 
hold.    I   ran  about  the  garden   from  morning  to 


The  Privy  Councillor  233 

night,  or  sat  in  the  lodge  sticking  my  kites  together. 
For  the  first  two  or  three  weeks  we  did  not  see  my 
uncle  often.  For  days  together  he  sat  in  his  own 
room  working,  in  spite  of  the  flies  and  the  heat.  His 
extraordinary  capacity  for  sitting  as  though  glued 
to  his  table  produced  upon  us  the  effect  of  an  inex- 
plicable conjuring  trick.  To  us  idlers,  knowing  noth- 
ing of  systematic  work,  his  industry  seemed  simply 
miraculous.  Getting  up  at  nine,  he  sat  down  to  his 
table,  and  did  not  leave  it  till  dinner-time;  after 
dinner  he  set  to  work  again,  and  went  on  till  late  at 
night.  Whenever  I  peeped  through  the  keyhole  I 
invariably  saw  the  same  thing:  my  uncle  sitting  at  the 
table  working.  The  work  consisted  in  his  writing 
with  one  hand  while  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a 
book  with  the  other,  and,  strange  to  say,  he  kept  mov- 
ing all  over  —  swinging  his  leg  as  though  it  were  a 
pendulum,  whistling,  and  nodding  his  head  in  time. 
He  had  an  extremely  careless  and  frivolous  expres- 
sion all  the  while,  as  though  he  were  not  working,  but 
playing  at  noughts  and  crosses.  I  always  saw  him 
wearing  a  smart  short  jacket  and  a  jauntily  tied 
cravat,  and  he  always  smelt,  even  through  the  key- 
hole, of  delicate  feminine  perfumery.  He  only  left 
his  room  for  dinner,  but  he  ate  little. 

"  I  can't  make  brother  out!  "  mother  complained 
of  him.  "  Every  day  we  kill  a  turkey  and  pigeons 
on  purpose  for  him,  I  make  a  compote  with  my  own 
hands,  and  he  eats  a  plateful  of  broth  and  a  bit  of 
meat  the  size  of  a  finger  and  gets  up  from  the  table. 
I  begin  begging  him  to  eat;  he  comes  back  and  drinks 
a  glass  of  milk.     And  what  is  there  in  that,  in  a  glass 


234  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

of  milk?  It's  no  better  than  washing  up  water! 
You  may  die  of  a  diet  like  that.  ...  If  I  try  to  per- 
suade him,  he  laughs  and  makes  a  joke  of  it.  .  .  . 
No ;  he  does  not  care  for  our  fare,  poor  dear  !  " 

We  spent  the  evenings  far  more  gaily  than  the 
days.  As  a  rule,  by  the  time  the  sun  was  setting  and 
long  shadows  were  lying  across  the  yard,  we  —  that 
is,  Tatyana  Ivanovna,  Pobyedimsky,  and  I  —  were 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  lodge.  We  did  not  talk  till 
it  grew  quite  dusk.  And,  indeed,  what  is  one  to 
talk  of  when  every  subject  has  been  talked  over  al- 
ready? There  was  only  one  thing  new,  my  uncle's 
arrival,  and  even  that  subject  was  soon  exhausted. 
My  tutor  never  took  his  eyes  off  Tatyana  Ivanovna's 
face,  and  frequently  heaved  deep  sighs.  ...  At  the 
time  I  did  not  understand  those  sighs,  and  did  not 
try  to  fathom  their  significance;  now  they  explain  a 
great  deal  to  me. 

When  the  shadows  merged  into  one  thick  mass  of 
shade,  the  bailiff  Fyodor  would  come  in  from  shoot- 
ing or  from  the  field.  This  Fyodor  gave  me  the  im- 
pression of  being  a  fierce  and  even  a  terrible  man. 
The  son  of  a  Russianized  gipsy  from  Izyumskoe, 
swarthy-faced  and  curly-headed,  with  big  black  eyes 
and  a  matted  beard,  he  was  never  called  among  our 
Kotchuevko  peasants  by  any  name  but  "  The  Devil." 
And,  indeed,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  the  gipsy 
about  him  apart  from  his  appearance.  He  could 
not,  for  instance,  stay  at  home,  and  went  off  for  days 
together  into  the  country  or  into  the  woods  to  shoot. 
He  was  gloomy,  ill-humoured,  taciturn,  was  afraid 
of  nobody,  and  refused  to  recognize  any  authority. 


The  Privy  Councillor  235 

He  was  rude  to  mother,  addressed  me  familiarly, 
and  was  contemptuous  of  Pobyedimsky's  learning. 
All  this  we  forgave  him,  looking  upon  him  as  a  hot- 
tempered  and  nervous  man;  mother  liked  him  be- 
cause, in  spite  of  his  gipsy  nature,  he  was  ideally  hon- 
est and  industrious.  He  loved  his  Tatyana  Ivan- 
ovna  passionately,  like  a  gipsy,  but  this  love  took  in 
him  a  gloomy  form,  as  though  it  cost  him  suffering. 
He  was  never  affectionate  to  his  wife  in  our  presence, 
but  simply  rolled  his  eyes  angrily  at  her  and  twisted 
his  mouth. 

When  he  came  in  from  the  fields  he  would  noisily 
and  angrily  put  down  his  gun,  would  come  out  to  us 
on  the  steps,  and  sit  down  beside  his  wife.  After 
resting  a  little,  he  would  ask  his  wife  a  few  questions 
about  household  matters,  and  then  sink  into  silence. 

"  Let  us  sing,"  I  would  suggest. 

My  tutor  would  tune  his  guitar,  and  in  a  deep  dea- 
con's bass  strike  up  "  In  the  midst  of  the  valley." 
We  would  begin  singing.  My  tutor  took  the  bass, 
Fyodor  sang  in  a  hardly  audible  tenor,  while  I  sang 
soprano  in  unison  with  Tatyana  Ivanovna. 

When  the  whole  sky  was  covered  with  stars  and 
the  frogs  had  left  off  croaking,  they  would  bring  in 
our  supper  from  the  kitchen.  We  went  into  the 
lodge  and  sat  down  to  the  meal.  My  tutor  and  the 
gipsy  ate  greedily,  with  such  a  sound  that  it  was  hard 
to  tell  whether  it  was  the  bones  crunching  or  their 
jaws,  and  Tatyana  Ivanovna  and  I  scarcely  succeeded 
in  getting  our  share.  After  supper  the  lodge  was 
plunged  in  deep  sleep. 

One  evening,  it  was  at  the  end  of  May,  we  were 


236  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

sitting  on  the  steps,  waiting  for  supper.  A  shadow 
suddenly  fell  across  us,  and  Gundasov  stood  before 
us  as  though  he  had  sprung  out  of  the  earth.  He 
looked  at  us  for  a  long  time,  then  clasped  his  hands 
and  laughed  gaily. 

"  An  idyll !  "  he  said.  "  They  sing  and  dream 
in  the  moonlight!  It's  charming,  upon  my  soul! 
May  I  sit  down  and  dream  with  you  ?  " 

We  looked  at  one  another  and  said  nothing.  My 
uncle  sat  down  on  the  bottom  step,  yawned,  and 
looked  at  the  sky.  A  silence  followed.  Pobyedim- 
sky,  who  had  for  a  long  time  been  wanting  to  talk 
to  somebody  fresh,  was  delighted  at  the  opportunity, 
and  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  He  had  only 
one  subject  for  intellectual  conversation,  the  epizoo- 
tic diseases.  It  sometimes  happens  that  after  one 
has  been  in  an  immense  crowd,  only  some  one  coun- 
tenance of  the  thousands  remains  long  imprinted  on 
the  memory;  in  the  same  way,  of  all  that  Pobye- 
dimsky  had  heard,  during  his  six  months  at  the 
veterinary  institute,  he  remembered  only  one  pas- 
sage : 

"  The  epizootics  do  immense  damage  to  the  stock 
of  the  country.  It  is  the  duty  of  society  to  work 
hand  in  hand  with  the  government  in  waging  war 
upon  them." 

Before  saying  this  to  Gundasov,  my  tutor  cleared 
his  throat  three  times,  and  several  times,  in  his  ex- 
citement, wrapped  himself  up  in  his  Inverness.  On 
hearing  about  the  epizootics,  my  uncle  looked  in- 
tently at  my  tutor  and  made  a  sound  between  a  snort 
and  a  laugh. 


The  Privy  Councillor  237 

"  Upon  my  soul,  that's  charming!  "  he  said,  scru- 
tinizing us  as  though  we  were  mannequins.  "  This 
is  actually  life.  .  .  .  This  is  really  what  reality  is 
bound  to  be.  Why  are  you  silent,  Pelagea  Ivan- 
ovna?  "  he  said,  addressing  Tatyana  Ivanovna. 

She  coughed,  overcome  with  confusion. 

"  Talk,  my  friends,  sing  .  .  .  play !  .  .  .  Don't 
lose  time.  You  know,  time,  the  rascal,  runs  away 
and  waits  for  no  man!  Upon  my  soul,  before  you 
have  time  to  look  round,  old  age  is  upon  you.  .  .  . 
Then  it  is  too  late  to  live !  That's  how  it  is,  Pelagea 
Ivanovna.  .  .  .  We  mustn't  sit  still  and  be  si- 
lent. .  .  ." 

At  that  point  supper  was  brought  out  from  the 
kitchen.  Uncle  went  into  the  lodge  with  us,  and 
to  keep  us  company  ate  five  curd  fritters  and  the  wing 
of  a  duck.  He  ate  and  looked  at  us.  He  was 
touched  and  delighted  by  us  all.  Whatever  silly 
nonsense  my  precious  tutor  talked,  and  whatever 
Tatyana  Ivanovna  did,  he  thought  charming  and  de- 
lightful. When  after  supper  Tatyana  Ivanovna  sat 
quietly  down  and  took  up  her  knitting,  he  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  her  fingers  and  chatted  away  without 
ceasing. 

"  Make  all  the  haste  you  can  to  live,  my  friends 
.  .  ."  he  said.  "  God  forbid  you  should  sacrifice 
the  present  for  the  future !  There  is  youth,  health, 
fire  in  the  present;  the  future  is  smoke  and  deception ! 
As  soon  as  you  are  twenty  begin  to  live." 

Tatyana  Ivanovna  dropped  a  knitting-needle. 
My  uncle  jumped  up,  picked  up  the  needle,  and 
handed  it  to  Tatyana  Ivanovna  with  a  bow,  and  for 


238  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  first  time  in  my  life  I  learnt  that  there  were  people 
in  the  world  more  refined  than  Pobyedimsky. 

"  Yes  .  .  ."  my  uncle  went  on,  "  love,  marry,  do 
silly  things.  Foolishness  is  a  great  deal  more  living 
and  healthy  than  our  straining  and  striving  after 
rational  life." 

My  uncle  talked  a  great  deal,  so  much  that  he 
bored  us;  I  sat  on  a  box  listening  to  him  and  drop- 
ping to  sleep.  It  distressed  me  that  he  did  not  once 
all  the  evening  pay  attention  to  me.  He  left  the 
lodge  at  two  o'clock,  when,  overcome  with  drowsi- 
ness, I  was  sound  asleep. 

From  that  time  forth  my  uncle  took  to  coming  to 
the  lodge  every  evening.  He  sang  with  us,  had 
supper  with  us,  and  always  stayed  on  till  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  chatting  incessantly,  always  about  the 
same  subject.  His  evening  and  night  work  was 
given  up,  and  by  the  end  of  June,  when  the  privy 
councillor  had  learned  to  eat  mother's  turkey  and 
compote,  his  work  by  day  was  abandoned  too.  My 
uncle  tore  himself  away  from  his  table  and  plunged 
into  "  life."  In  the  daytime  he  walked  up  and  down 
the  garden,  he  whistled  to  the  workmen  and  hindered 
them  from  working,  making  them  tell  him  their  va- 
rious histories.  When  his  eye  fell  on  Tatyana  Ivan- 
ovna  he  ran  up  to  her,  and,  if  she  were  carrying  any- 
thing, offered  his  assistance,  which  embarrassed  her 
dreadfully. 

As  the  summer  advanced  my  uncle  grew  more  and 
more  frivolous,  volatile,  and  careless.  Pobvedimsky 
was  completely  disillusioned  in  regard  to  him. 

"  He  is  too  one-sided,"  he  said.     "  There  is  noth- 


The  Privy  Councillor  239 

ing  to  show  that  he  is  in  the  very  foremost  ranks  of 
the  service.  And  he  doesn't  even  know  how  to  talk. 
At  every  word  it's  '  upon  my  soul.'  No,  I  don't 
like  him!" 

From  the  time  that  my  uncle  began  visiting  the 
lodge  there  was  a  noticeable  change  both  in  Fyodor 
and  my  tutor.  Fyodor  gave  up  going  out  shooting, 
came  home  early,  sat  more  taciturn  than  ever,  and 
stared  with  particular  ill-humour  at  his  wife.  In 
my  uncle's  presence  my  tutor  gave  up  talking  about 
epizootics,  frowned,  and  even  laughed  sarcastically. 

"  Here  comes  our  little  bantam  cock !  "  he  growled 
on  one  occasion  when  my  uncle  was  coming  into  the 
lodge. 

I  put  down  this  change  in  them  both  to  their  be- 
ing offended  with  my  uncle.  My  absent-minded  un- 
cle mixed  up  their  names,  and  to  the  very  day  of  his 
departure  failed  to  distinguish  which  was  my  tutor 
and  which  was  Tatyana  Ivanovna's  husband.  Tat- 
yana  Ivanovna  herself  he  sometimes  called  Nastasya, 
sometimes  Pelagea,  and  sometimes  Yevdokia. 
Touched  and  delighted  by  us,  he  laughed  and  be- 
haved exactly  as  though  in  the  company  of  small 
children.  .  .  .  All  this,  of  course,  might  well  offend 
young  men.  It  was  not  a  case  of  offended  pride, 
however,  but,  as  I  realize  now,  subtler  feelings. 

I  remember  one  evening  I  was  sitting  on  the  box 
struggling  with  sleep.  My  eyelids  felt  glued  to- 
gether and  my  body,  tired  out  by  running  about  all 
day,  drooped  sideways.  But  I  struggled  against 
sleep  and  tried  to  look  on.  It  was  about  midnight. 
Tatyana  Ivanovna,  rosy  and  unassuming  as  always, 


■ 


240  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

was  sitting  at  a  little  table  sewing  at  her  husband's 
shirt.  Fyodor,  sullen  and  gloomy,  was  staring  at 
her  from  one  corner,  and  in  the  other  sat  Pobyedim- 
sky,  snorting  angrily  and  retreating  into  the  high 
collar  of  his  shirt.  My  uncle  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  thinking.  Silence  reigned;  nothing 
was  to  be  heard  but  the  rustling  of  the  linen  in  Tat- 
yana  Ivanovna's  hands.  Suddenly  my  uncle  stood 
still  before  Tatyana  Ivanovna,  and  said: 

"  You  are  all  so  young,  so  fresh,  so  nice,  you  live 
so  peacefully  in  this  quiet  place,  that  I  envy  you.  I 
have  become  attached  to  your  way  of  life  here;  my 
heart  aches  when  I  remember  I  have  to  go  away. 
.   .   .  You  may  believe  in  my  sincerity!  " 

Sleep  closed  my  eyes  and  I  lost  myself.  When 
some  sound  waked  me,  my  uncle  was  standing  before 
Tatyana  Ivanovna,  looking  at  her  with  a  softened  ex- 
pression.    His  cheeks  were  flushed. 

11  My  life  has  been  wasted,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
not  lived!  Your  young  face  makes  me  think  of  my 
own  lost  youth,  and  I  should  be  ready  to  sit  here 
watching  you  to  the  day  of  my  death.  It  would  be 
a  pleasure  to  me  to  take  you  with  me  to  Petersburg." 

"  What  for?  "  Fyodor  asked  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  I  should  put  her  under  a  glass  case  on  my  work- 
table.  I  should  admire  her  and  show  her  to  other 
people.  You  know,  Pelagea  Ivanovna,  we  have  no 
women  like  you  there.  Among  us  there  is  wealth, 
distinction,  sometimes  beauty,  but  we  have  not  this 
true  sort  of  life,  this  healthy  serenity.   .   .   ." 

My  uncle  sat  down  facing  Tatyana  Ivanovna  and 
took  her  by  the  hand. 


The  Privy  Councillor  241 

"  So  you  won't  come  with  me  to  Petersburg?  "  he 
laughed.  "  In  that  case  give  me  your  little  hand. 
...  A  charming  little  hand !  .  .  .  You  won't  give 
it?     Come,  you  miser!  let  me  kiss  it,  anyway.   .   .   ." 

At  that  moment  there  was  the  scrape  of  a  chair. 
Fyodor  jumped  up,  and  with  heavy,  measured  steps 
went  up  to  his  wife.  His  face  was  pale,  grey,  and 
quivering.  He  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table 
with  a  bang,  and  said  in  a  hollow  voice: 

"  I  won't  allow  it!  " 

At  the  same  moment  Pobyedimsky  jumped  up  from 
his  chair.  He,  too,  pale  and  angry,  went  up  to  Tat- 
yana  Ivanovna,  and  he,  too,  struck  the  table  with  his 
fist. 

"  I  ...  I  won't  allow  it!  "  he  said. 

"What,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  my  uncle  in 
surprise. 

"  I  won't  allow  it !  "  repeated  Fyodor,  banging  on 
the  table. 

My  uncle  jumped  up  and  blinked  nervously.  He 
tried  to  speak,  but  in  his  amazement  and  alarm 
could  not  utter  a  word;  with  an  embarrassed  smile, 
he  shuffled  out  of  the  lodge  with  the  hurried  step  of 
an  old  man,  leaving  his  hat  behind.  When,  a  little 
later,  my  mother  ran  into  the  lodge,  Fyodor  and 
Pobyedimsky  were  still  hammering  on  the  table  like 
blacksmiths  and  repeating,  "  I  won't  allow  it!  " 

"What  has  happened  here?"  asked  mother. 
"  Why  has  my  brother  been  taken  ill?  What's  the 
matter?" 

Looking  at  Tatyana's  pale,  frightened  face  and 
at  her  infuriated  husband,  mother  probably  guessed 


242  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

what  was  the  matter.  She  sighed  and  shook  her 
head. 

"Come!  give  over  banging  on  the  table!"  she 
said.  "Leave  off,  Fyodor!  And  why  are  you 
thumping,  Yegor  Alexyevitch?  What  have  you  got 
to  do  with  it?" 

Pobyedimsky  was  startled  and  confused.  Fyo- 
dor looked  intently  at  him,  then  at  his  wife,  and  be- 
gan walking  about  the  room.  When  mother  had 
gone  out  of  the  lodge,  I  saw  what  for  long  after- 
wards I  looked  upon  as  a  dream.  I  saw  Fyodor 
seize  my  tutor,  lift  him  up  in  the  air,  and  thrust  him 
out  of  the  door. 

When  I  woke  up  in  the  morning  my  tutor's  bed  was 
empty.  To  my  question  where  he  was  nurse  told 
me  in  a  whisper  that  he  had  been  taken  off  early  in 
the  morning  to  the  hospital,  as  his  arm  was  broken. 
Distressed  at  this  intelligence  and  remembering  the 
scene  of  the  previous  evening,  I  went  out  of  doors. 
It  was  a  grey  day.  The  sky  was  covered  with  storm- 
clouds  and  there  was  a  wind  blowing  dust,  bits  of 
paper,  and  feathers  along  the  ground.  ...  It  felt 
as  though  rain  were  coming.  There  was  a  look  of 
boredom  in  the  servants  and  in  the  animals.  When 
I  went  into  the  house  I  was  told  not  to  make  such  a 
noise  with  my  feet}  as  mother  was  ill  and  in  bed  with 
a  migraine.  What  was  I  to  do?  I  went  outside  the 
gate,  sat  down  on  the  little  bench  there,  and  fell  to 
trying  to  discover  the  meaning  of  what  I  had  seen 
and  heard  the  day  before.  From  our  gate  there  was 
a  road  which,  passing  the  forge  and  the  pool  which 
never  dried  up,  ran  into  the  main  road.     I  looked  at 


The  Privy  Councillor  243 

the  telegraph-posts,  about  which  clouds  of  dust  were 
whirling,  and  at  the  sleepy  birds  sitting  on  the  wires, 
and  I  suddenly  felt  so  dreary  that  I  began  to  cry. 

A  dusty  wagonette  crammed  full  of  townspeople, 
probably  going  to  visit  the  shrine,  drove  by  along  the 
main  road.  The  wagonette  was  hardly  out  of 
sight  when  a  light  chaise  with  a  pair  of  horses  came 
into  view.  In  it  was  Akim  Nikititch,  the  police 
inspector,  standing  up  and  holding  on  to  the  coach- 
man's belt.  To  my  great  surprise,  the  chaise  turned 
into  our  road  and  flew  by  me  in  at  the  gate.  While 
I  was  puzzling  why  the  police  inspector  had  come 
to  see  us,  I  heard  a  noise,  and  a  carriage  with  three 
horses  came  into  sight  on  the  road.  In  the  carriage 
stood  the  police  captain,  directing  his  coachman  to- 
wards our  gate. 

"  And  why  is  he  coming?  "  I  thought,  looking  at 
the  dusty  police  captain.  "  Most  probably  Pobve- 
dimsky  has  complained  of  Fyodor  to  him,  and  they 
have  come  to  take  him  to  prison." 

But  the  mystery  was  not  so  easily  solved.  The 
police  inspector  and  the  police  captain  were  only  the 
first  instalment,  for  five  minutes  had  scarcely  passed 
when  a  coach  drove  in  at  our  gate.  It  dashed  by  me 
so  swiftly  that  I  could  only  get  a  glimpse  of  a  red 
beard. 

Lost  in  conjecture  and  full  of  misgivings,  I  ran 
to  the  house.  In  the  passage  first  of  all  I  saw 
mother;  she  was  pale  and  looking  with  horror  to- 
wards the  door,  from  which  came  the  sounds  of 
men's  voices.  The  visitors  had  taken  her  by  sur- 
prise in  the  very  throes  of  migraine. 


244  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  Who  has  come,  mother?  "  I  asked. 

"  Sister,"  I  heard  my  uncle's  voice,  "  will  you  send 
in  something  to  eat  for  the  governor  and  me?" 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  '  something  to  eat,'  "  whispered 
my  mother,  numb  with  horror.  "  What  have  I  time 
to  get  ready  now?  I  am  put  to  shame  in  my  old 
age!" 

Mother  clutched  at  her  head  and  ran  into  the 
kitchen.  The  governor's  sudden  visit  stirred  and 
overwhelmed  the  whole  household.  A  ferocious 
slaughter  followed.  A  dozen  fowls,  five  turkeys, 
eight  ducks,  were  killed,  and  in  the  fluster  the  old 
gander,  the  progenitor  of  our  whole  flock  of  geese 
and  a  great  favourite  of  mother's,  was  beheaded. 
The  coachmen  and  the  cook  seemed  frenzied,  and 
slaughtered  birds  at  random,  without  distinction  of 
age  or  breed.  For  the  sake  of  some  wretched  sauce 
a  pair  of  valuable  pigeons,  as  dear  to  me  as  the  gan- 
der was  to  mother,  were  sacrificed.  It  was  a  long 
while  before  I  could  forgive  the  governor  their 
death. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  governor  and  his  suite, 
after  a  sumptuous  dinner,  had  got  into  their  car- 
riages and  driven  away,  I  went  into  the  house  to  look 
at  the  remains  of  the  feast.  Glancing  into  the  draw- 
ing-room from  the  passage,  I  saw  my  uncle  and  my 
mother.  My  uncle,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
was  walking  nervously  up  and  down  close  to  the  wall, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  Mother,  exhausted  and 
looking  much  thinner,  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  and 
watching  his  movements  with  heavy  eyes. 

"  Excuse  me,  sister,  but  this  won't  do  at  all,"  my 


The  Privy  Councillor  245 

uncle  grumbled,  wrinkling  up  his  face.  "  I  intro- 
duced the  governor  to  you,  and  you  didn't  offer  to 
shake  hands.  You  covered  him  with  confusion,  poor 
fellow !  No,  that  won't  do.  .  .  .  Simplicity  is  a 
very  good  thing,  but  there  must  be  limits  to  it.  .  .  . 
Upon  my  soul !  And  then  that  dinner  1  How  can 
one  give  people  such  things?  What  was  that  mess, 
for  instance,  that  they  served  for  the  fourth  course?  " 

"  That  was  duck  with  sweet  sauce  .  .  ."  mother 
answered  softly. 

"  Duck!  Forgive  me,  sister,  but  .  .  .  but  here 
I've  got  heartburn  !     I  am  ill!" 

My  uncle  made  a  sour,  tearful  face,  and  went  on: 

"  It  was  the  devil  sent  that  governor  I  As  though 
I  wanted  his  visit!  Pff !  .  .  .  heartburn!  I  can't 
work  or  sleep  ...  I  am  completely  out  of  sorts. 
.  .  .  And  I  can't  understand  how  you  can  live  here 
without  anything  to  do  ...  in  this  boredom! 
Here  I've  got  a  pain  coming  under  my  shoulder- 
blade!  .  .  ." 

My  uncle  frowned,  and  walked  about  more  rapidly 
than  ever. 

"  Brother,"  my  mother  inquired  softly,  "  what 
would  it  cost  to  go  abroad?" 

"  At  least  three  thousand  .  .  ."  my  uncle  an- 
swered in  a  tearful  voice.  "  I  would  go,  but  where 
am  I  to  get  it?  I  haven't  a  farthing.  Pff!  .  .  . 
heartburn !  " 

My  uncle  stopped  to  look  dejectedly  at  the  grey, 
overcast  prospect  from  the  window,  and  began  pac- 
ing to  and  fro  again. 

A  silence  followed.  .  .  .  Mother  looked  a  long 


'246  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

while  at  the  ikon,  pondering  something,  then  she  be- 
gan crying,  and  said: 

"  I'll  give  you  the  three  thousand,  brother.   .   .   ." 

Three  days  later  the  majestic  boxes  went  off  to  the 
station,  and  the  privy  councillor  drove  off  after  them. 
As  he  said  good-bye  to  mother  he  shed  tears,  and  it 
was  a  long  time  before  he  took  his  lips  from  her 
hands,  but  when  he  got  into  his  carriage  his  face 
beamed  with  childlike  pleasure.  .  .  .  Radiant  and 
happy,  he  settled  himself  comfortably,  kissed  his 
hand  to  my  mother,  who  was  crying,  and  all  at  once 
his  eye  was  caught  by  me.  A  look  of  the  utmost  as- 
tonishment came  into  his  face. 

"  What  boy  is  this?  "  he  asked. 

My  mother,  who  had  declared  mv  uncle's  coming 
was  a  piece  of  luck  for  which  I  must  thank  God,  was 
bitterly  mortified  at  this  question.  I  was  in  no  mood 
for  questions.  I  looked  at  my  uncle's  happy  face, 
and  for  some  reason  I  felt  fearfullv  sorry  for  him. 
I  could  not  resist  jumping  up  to  the  carriage  and 
hugging  that  frivolous  man,  weak  as  all  men  are. 
Looking  into  his  face  and  wanting  to  say  something 
pleasant,  I  asked: 

"  Uncle,  have  you  ever  been  in  a  battle  ?  " 

"Ah,  the  dear  boy  .  .  ."  laughed  my  uncle,  kiss- 
ing me.  "  A  charming  boy,  upon  mv  soul!  How 
natural,  how  living  it  all  is,  upon  mv  soul!   .   .   ." 

The  carriage  set  off.  ...  I  looked  after  him,  and 
long  afterwards  that  farewell  "  upon  my  soul  "  was 
ringing  in  my  ears. 


THE  MAN  IN  A  CASE 


THE  MAN  IN  A  CASE 

At  the  furthest  end  of  the  village  of  Mironositskoe 
some  belated  sportsmen  lodged  for  the  night  in  the 
elder  Prokofy's  barn.  There  were  two  of  them, 
the  veterinary  surgeon  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and  the 
schoolmaster  Burkin.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  had  a  rather 
strange  double-barrelled  surname  —  Tchimsha-Him- 
alaisky  —  which  did  not  suit  him  at  all,  and  he  was 
called  simply  Ivan  Ivanovitch  all  over  the  province. 
He  lived  at  a  stud-farm  near  the  town,  and  had  come 
out  shooting  now  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  Bur- 
kin,  the  high-school  teacher,  stayed  every  summer  at 

Count  P 's,  and  had  been  thoroughly  at  home  in 

this  district  for  years. 

They  did  not  sleep.  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  a  tall,  lean 
old  fellow  with  long  moustaches,  was  sitting  outside 
the  door,  smoking  a  pipe  in  the  moonlight.  Burkin 
was  lying  within  on  the  hay,  and  could  not  be  seen 
in  the  darkness. 

They  were  telling  each  other  all  sorts  of  stories. 
Among  other  things,  they  spoke  of  the  fact  that  the 
elder's  wife,  Mavra,  a  healthy  and  by  no  means 
stupid  woman,  had  never  been  beyond  her  native 
village,  had  never  seen  a  town  nor  a  railway  in  her 
life,  and  had  spent  the  last  ten  years  sitting  behind 
the  stove,  and  only  at  night  going  out  into  the  street. 

11  What  is  there  wonderful  in  that!  "  said  Burkin. 
249 


250  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

11  There  are  plenty  of  people  in  the  world,  solitary 
by  temperament,  who  try  to  retreat  into  their  shell 
like  a  hermit  crab  or  a  snail.  Perhaps  it  is  an  in- 
stance of  atavism,  a  return  to  the  period  when  the 
ancestor  of  man  was  not  yet  a  social  animal  and  lived 
alone  in  his  den,  or  perhaps  it  is  only  one  of  the  di- 
versities of  human  character  —  who  knows?  I  am 
not  a  natural  science  man,  and  it  is  not  my  business 
to  settle  such  questions;  I  only  mean  to  say  that  peo- 
ple like  Mavra  are  not  uncommon.  There  is  no 
need  to  look  far;  two  months  ago  a  man  called  Bye- 
likov,  a  colleague  of  mine,  the  Greek  master,  died  in 
our  town.  You  have  heard  of  him,  no  doubt.  He 
was  remarkable  for  always  wearing  goloshes  and  a 
warm  wadded  coat,  and  carrying  an  umbrella  even 
in  the  very  finest  weather.  And  his  umbrella  was  in 
a  case,  and  his  watch  was  in  a  case  made  of  grey 
chamois  leather,  and  when  he  took  out  his  penknife 
to  sharpen  his  pencil,  his  penknife,  too,  was  in  a 
little  case;  and  his  face  seemed  to  be  in  a  case  too, 
because  he  always  hid  it  in  his  turned-up  collar.  He 
wore  dark  spectacles  and  flannel  vests,  stuffed  up  his 
ears  with  cotton-wool,  and  when  he  got  into  a  cab 
always  told  the  driver  to  put  up  the  hood.  In  short, 
the  man  displayed  a  constant  and  insurmountable  im- 
pulse to  wrap  himself  in  a  covering,  to  make  him- 
self, so  to  speak,  a  case  which  would  isolate  him 
and  protect  him  from  external  influences.  Reality 
irritated  him,  frightened  him,  kept  him  in  continual 
agitation,  and,  perhaps  to  justify  his  timidity,  his 
aversion  for  the  actual,  he  always  praised  the  past 
and  what  had  never  existed;  and  even  the  classical 


The  Man  in  a  Case  251 

languages  which  he  taught  were  in  reality  for  him 
goloshes  and  umbrellas  in  which  he  sheltered  himself 
from  real  life. 

"  '  Oh,  how  sonorous,  how  beautiful  is  the  Greek 
language!  '  he  would  say,  with  a  sugary  expression; 
and  as  though  to  prove  his  words  he  would  screw 
up  his  eyes  and,  raising  his  finger,  would  pronounce 
1  Anthropos !  ' 

"  And  Byelikov  tried  to  hide  his  thoughts  also  in 
a  case.  The  only  things  that  were  clear  to  his  mind 
were  government  circulars  and  newspaper  articles  in 
which  something  was  forbidden.  When  some  proc- 
lamation prohibited  the  boys  from  going  out  in  the 
streets  after  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  or  some 
article  declared  carnal  love  unlawful,  it  was  to  his 
mind  clear  and  definite;  it  was  forbidden,  and  that 
was  enough.  For  him  there  was  always  a  doubtful 
element,  something  vague  and  not  fully  expressed,  in 
any  sanction  or  permission.  When  a  dramatic  club 
or  a  reading-room  or  a  tea-shop  was  licensed  in  the 
town,  he  would  shake  his  head  and  say  softly: 

"  '  It  is  all  right,  of  course;  it  is  all  very  nice,  but 
I  hope  it  won't  lead  to  anything!  ' 

"  Every  sort  of  breach  of  order,  deviation  or  de- 
parture from  rule,  depressed  him,  though  one  would 
have  thought  it  was  no  business  of  his.  If  one  of 
his  colleagues  was  late  for  church  or  if  rumours 
reached  him  of  some  prank  of  the  high-school  boys, 
or  one  of  the  mistresses  was  seen  late  in  the  evening 
in  the  company  of  an  officer,  he  was  much  disturbed, 
and  said  he  hoped  that  nothing  would  come  of  it. 
At  the  teachers'  meetings  he  simply  oppressed  us  with 


252  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

his  caution,  his  circumspection,  and  his  characteristic 
reflection  on  the  ill-behaviour  of  the  young  people  in 
both  male  and  female  high-schools,  the  uproar  in  the 
classes.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  he  hoped  it  would  not  reach  the  ears  of  the 
authorities;  oh,  he  hoped  nothing  would  come  of  it; 
and  he  thought  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  if 
Petrov  were  expelled  from  the  second  class  and 
Yegorov  from  the  fourth.  And,  do  you  know,  by 
his  sighs,  his  despondency,  his  black  spectacles  on  his 
pale  little  face,  a  little  face  like  a  pole-cat's,  you 
know,  he  crushed  us  all,  and  we  gave  way,  reduced 
Petrov's  and  Yegorov's  marks  for  conduct,  kept  them 
in,  and  in  the  end  expelled  them  both.  He  had  a 
strange  habit  of  visiting  our  lodgings.  He  would 
come  to  a  teacher's,  would  sit  down,  and  remain 
silent,  as  though  he  were  carefully  inspecting  some- 
thing. He  would  sit  like  this  in  silence  for  an  hour 
or  two  and  then  go  away.  This  he  called  '  maintain- 
ing good  relations  with  his  colleagues';  and  it  was 
obvious  that  coming  to  see  us  and  sitting  there  was 
tiresome  to  him,  and  that  he  came  to  see  us  simply 
because  he  considered  it  his  duty  as  our  colleague. 
We  teachers  were  afraid  of  him.  And  even  the 
headmaster  was  afraid  of  him.  Would  you  believe 
it,  our  teachers  were  all  intellectual,  right-minded 
people,  brought  up  on  Turgenev  and  Shtchedrin,  yet 
this  little  chap,  who  always  went  about  with  goloshes 
and  an  umbrella,  had  the  whole  high-school  under 
his  thumb  for  fifteen  long  years!  High-school,  in- 
deed —  he  had  the  whole  town  under  his  thumb ! 
Our  ladies  did  not  get  up  private  theatricals  on  Sat- 


The  Man  in  a  Case  253 

urdays  for  fear  he  should  hear  of  it,  and  the  clergy 
dared  not  eat  meat  or  play  cards  in  his  presence. 
Under  the  influence  of  people  like  Byelikov  we  have 
got  into  the  way  of  being  afraid  of  everything  in  our 
town  for  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years.  They  are 
afraid  to  speak  aloud,  afraid  to  send  letters,  afraid 
to  make  acquaintances,  afraid  to  read  books,  afraid 
to  help  the  poor,  to  teach  people  to  read  and 
write.   .  .  ." 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  cleared  his  throat,  meaning  to 
say  something,  but  first  lighted  his  pipe,  gazed  at  the 
moon,  and  then  said,  with  pauses: 

"  Yes,  intellectual,  right  minded  people  read 
Shtchedrin  and  Turgenev,  Buckle,  and  all  the  rest  of 
them,  yet  they  knocked  under  and  put  up  with  it  .  .  . 
that's  just  how  it  is." 

"  Byelikov  lived  in  the  same  house  as  I  did," 
Burkin  went  on,  "  on  the  same  storey,  his  door  fac- 
ing mine;  we  often  saw  each  other,  and  I  knew  how 
he  lived  when  he  was  at  home.  And  at  home  it  was 
the  same  story:  dressing-gown,  nightcap,  blinds, 
bolts,  a  perfect  succession  of  prohibitions  and  restric- 
tions of  all  sorts,  and  — *  Oh,  I  hope  nothing  will 
come  of  it!  '  Lenten  fare  was  bad  for  him,  yet  he 
could  not  eat  meat,  as  people  might  perhaps  say 
Byelikov  did  not  keep  the  fasts,  and  he  ate  fresh- 
water fish  with  butter  —  not  a  Lenten  dish,  yet  one 
could  not  say  that  it  was  meat.  He  did  not  keep  a 
female  servant  for  fear  people  might  think  evil  of 
him,  but  had  as  cook  an  old  man  of  sixty,  called  Afan- 
asy,  half-witted  and  given  to  tippling,  who  had  once 
been  an  officer's  servant  and  could  cook  after  a  fash- 


254  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

ion.  This  Afanasy  was  usually  standing  at  the  door 
with  his  arms  folded;  with  a  deep  sigh,  he  would 
mutter  always  the  same  thing: 

There  are  plenty  of  them  about  nowadays!  ' 

"  Byelikov  had  a  little  bedroom  like  a  box;  his 
bed  had  curtains.  When  he  went  to  bed  he  covered 
his  head  over;  it  was  hot  and  stuffy;  the  wind  bat- 
tered on  the  closed  doors;  there  was  a  droning  noise 
in  the  stove  and  a  sound  of  sighs  from  the  kitchen 
—  ominous  sighs.  .  .  .  And  he  felt  frightened  under 
the  bed-clothes.  He  was  afraid  that  something 
might  happen,  that  Afanasy  might  murder  him,  that 
thieves  might  break  in,  and  so  he  had  troubled  dreams 
all  night,  and  in  the  morning,  when  we  went  to- 
gether to  the  high-school,  he  was  depressed  and  pale, 
and  it  was  evident  that  the  high-school  full  of  peo- 
ple excited  dread  and  aversion  in  his  whole  being, 
and  that  to  walk  beside  me  was  irksome  to  a  man  of 
his  solitary  temperament. 

"  '  They  make  a  great  noise  in  our  classes,'  he  used 
to  say,  as  though  trying  to  find  an  explanation  for  his 
depression.      '  It's  beyond  anything.' 

"  And  the  Greek  master,  this  man  in  a  case  — 
would  you  believe  it?  —  almost  got  married." 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  glanced  quickly  into  the  barn,  and 
said: 

"  You  are  joking!  " 

"  Yes,  strange  as  it  seems,  he  almost  got  married. 
A  new  teacher  of  history  and  geography,  Milhaii 
Savvitch  Kovalenko,  a  Little  Russian,  was  appointed. 
He  came,  not  alone,  but  with  his  sister  Varinka.  He 
was  a  tall,  dark  young  man  with  huge  hands,  and  one 


The  Man  in  a  Case  255 

could  see  from  his  face  that  he  had  a  bass  voice, 
and,  in  fact,  he  had  a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  out 
of  a  barrel — '  boom,  boom,  boom!  '  And  she  was 
not  so  young,  about  thirty,  but  she,  too,  was  tall,  well- 
made,  with  black  eyebrows  and  red  cheeks  —  in  fact, 
she  was  a  regular  sugar-plum,  and  so  sprightly,  so 
noisy;  she  was  always  singing  Little  Russian  songs 
and  laughing.  For  the  least  thing  she  would  go  off 
into  a  ringing  laugh  — '  Ha-ha-ha !  '  We  made  our 
first  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  Kovalenkos  at 
the  headmaster's  name-day  party.  Among  the  glum 
and  intensely  bored  teachers  who  came  even  to  the 
name-day  party  as  a  duty  we  suddenly  saw  a  new 
Aphrodite  risen  from  the  waves;  she  walked  with  her 
arms  akimbo,  laughed,  sang,  danced.  .  .  .  She  sang 
with  feeling  '  The  Winds  do  Blow,'  then  another 
song,  and  another,  and  she  fascinated  us  all  —  all, 
even  Byelikov.  He  sat  down  by  her  and  said  with  a 
honeyed  smile : 

"  '  The  Little  Russian  reminds  one  of  the  ancient 
Greek  in  its  softness  and  agreeable  resonance.' 

"  That  flattered  her,  and  she  began  telling  him 
with  feeling  and  earnestness  that  they  had  a  farm  in 
the  Gadyatchsky  district,  and  that  her  mamma  lived 
at  the  farm,  and  that  they  had  such  pears,  such  mel- 
ons, such  kabaks!  The  Little  Russians  call  pump- 
kins kabaks  {i.e.,  pothouses),  while  their  pothouses 
they  call  shinki,  and  they  make  a  beetroot  soup  with 
tomatoes  and  aubergines  in  it,  '  which  was  so  nice  — 
awfully  nice !  ' 

"  We  listened  and  listened,  and  suddenly  the  same 
idea  dawned  upon  us  all: 


256  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  '  It  would  be  a  good  thing  to  make  a  match  of 
it,'  the  headmaster's  wife  said  to  me  softly. 

"  We  all  for  some  reason  recalled  the  fact  that 
our  friend  Byelikov  was  not  married,  and  it  now 
seemed  to  us  strange  that  we  had  hitherto  failed  to 
observe,  and  had  in  fact  completely  lost  sight  of,  a 
detail  so  important  in  his  life.  What  was  his  at- 
titude to  woman?  How  had  he  settled  this  vital 
question  for  himself?  This  had  not  interested  us 
in  the  least  till  then;  perhaps  we  had  not  even  ad- 
mitted the  idea  that  a  man  who  went  out  in  all 
weathers  in  goloshes  and  slept  under  curtains  could 
be  in  love. 

"  '  He  is  a  good  deal  over  forty  and  she  is  thirty,' 
the  headmaster's  wife  went  on,  developing  her  idea. 
'  I  believe  she  would  marry  him.' 

"  All  sorts  of  things  are  done  in  the  provinces 
through  boredom,  all  sorts  of  unnecessary  and  non- 
sensical things!  And  that  is  because  what  is  neces- 
sary is  not  done  at  all.  What  need  was  there,  for 
instance,  for  us  to  make  a  match  for  this  Byelikov, 
whom  one  could  not  even  imagine  married?  The 
headmaster's  wife,  the  inspector's  wife,  and  all  our 
high-school  ladies,  grew  livelier  and  even  better-look- 
ing, as  though  they  had  suddenly  found  a  new  object 
in  life.  The  headmaster's  wife  would  take  a  box  at 
the  theatre,  and  we  beheld  sitting  in  her  box  Varinka, 
with  such  a  fan,  beaming  and  happy,  and  beside  her 
Byelikov,  a  little  bent  figure,  looking  as  though  he 
had  been  extracted  from  his  house  by  pincers.  I 
would  give  an  evening  party,  and  the  ladies  would 
insist  on  my  inviting   Byelikov   and  Varinka.     In 


The  Man  in  a  Case  257 

short,  the  machine  was  set  in  motion.  It  appeared 
that  Varinka  was  not  averse  to  matrimony.  She 
had  not  a  very  cheerful  life  with  her  brother;  they 
could  do  nothing  but  quarrel  and  scold  one  another 
from  morning  till  night.  Here  is  a  scene,  for  in- 
stance. Kovalenko  would  be  coming  along  the 
street,  a  tall,  sturdy  young  ruffian,  in  an  embroidered 
shirt,  his  love-locks  falling  on  his  forehead  under  his 
cap,  in  one  hand  a  bundle  of  books,  in  the  other  a 
thick  knotted  stick,  followed  by  his  sister,  also  with 
books  in  her  hand. 

"  '  But  you  haven't  read  it,  Mihalik!  '  she  would 
be  arguing  loudly.  '  I  tell  you,  I  swear  you  have  not 
read  it  at  all !  ' 

"  '  And  I  tell  you  I  have  read  it,'  cries  Kovalenko, 
thumping  his  stick  on  the  pavement. 

"  '  Oh,  my  goodness,  Mihalik!  why  are  you  so 
cross?     We  are  arguing  about  principles.' 

"'I  tell  you  that  I  have  read  it!'  Kovalenko 
would  shout,  more  loudly  than  ever. 

"  And  at  home,  if  there  was  an  outsider  present, 
there  was  sure  to  be  a  skirmish.  Such  a  life  must 
have  been  wearisome,  and  of  course  she  must  have 
longed  for  a  home  of  her  own.  Besides,  there  was 
her  age  to  be  considered;  there  was  no  time  left  to 
pick  and  choose;  it  was  a  case  of  marrying  anybody, 
even  a  Greek  master.  And,  indeed,  most  of  our 
young  ladies  don't  mind  whom  they  marry  so  long 
as  they  do  get  married.  However  that  may  be, 
Varinka  began  to  show  an  unmistakable  partiality 
for  Byelikov. 

"  And  Byelikov  ?     He  used  to  visit  Kovalenko  just 


258  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

as  he  did  us.  He  would  arrive,  sit  down,  and  re- 
main silent.  He  would  sit  quiet,  and  Varinka  would 
sing  to  him  '  The  Winds  do  Blow,'  or  would  look 
pensively  at  him  with  her  dark  eyes,  or  would  sud- 
denly go  off  into  a  peal  — '  Ha-ha-ha !  ' 

"  Suggestion  plays  a  great  part  in  love  affairs,  and 
still  more  in  getting  married.  Everybody  —  both 
his  colleagues  and  the  ladies  —  began  assuring  Bye- 
likov  that  he  ought  to  get  married,  that  there  was 
nothing  left  for  him  in  life  but  to  get  married;  we 
all  congratulated  him,  with  solemn  countenances 
delivered  ourselves  of  various  platitudes,  such  as 
1  Marriage  is  a  serious  step.'  Besides,  Varinka  was 
good-looking  and  interesting;  she  was  the  daughter 
of  a  civil  councillor,  and  had  a  farm;  and  what  was 
more,  she  was  the  first  woman  who  had  been  warm 
and  friendly  in  her  manner  to  him.  His  head  was 
turned,  and  he  decided  that  he  really  ought  to  get 
married." 

"  Well,  at  that  point  you  ought  to  have  taken 
away  his  goloshes  and  umbrella,"  said  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch. 

"Only  fancy!  that  turned  out  to  be  impossible. 
He  put  Varinka's  portrait  on  his  table,  kept  coming 
to  see  me  and  talking  about  Varinka,  and  home  life, 
saying  marriage  was  a  serious  step.  He  was  fre- 
quently at  Kovalenko's,  but  he  did  not  alter  his  man- 
ner of  life  in  the  least;  on  the  contrary,  indeed,  his 
determination  to  get  married  seemed  to  have  a  de- 
pressing effect  on  him.  He  grew  thinner  and  paler, 
and  seemed  to  retreat  further  and  further  into  his 
case. 


The  Man  in  a  Case  259 

"  '  I  like  Varvara  Savvishna,'  he  used  to  say  to 
me,  with  a  faint  and  wry  smile,  '  and  I  know  that 
every  one  ought  to  get  married,  but  .  .  .  you  know 
all  this  has  happened  so  suddenly.  .  .  .  One  must 
think  a  little.' 

"'What  is  there  to  think  over?'  I  used  to  say 
to  him.      '  Get  married  —  that  is  all.' 

"'No;  marriage  is  a  serious  step.  One  must 
first  weigh  the  duties  before  one,  the  responsibilities 
.  .  .  that  nothing  may  go  wrong  afterwards.  It 
worries  me  so  much  that  I  don't  sleep  at  night.  And 
I  must  confess  I  am  afraid :  her  brother  and  she  have 
a  strange  way  of  thinking;  they  look  at  things 
strangely,  you  know,  and  her  disposition  is  very  im- 
petuous. One  may  get  married,  and  then,  there  is 
no  knowing,  one  may  find  oneself  in  an  unpleasant 
position.' 

"  And  he  did  not  make  an  offer;  he  kept  putting 
it  off,  to  the  great  vexation  of  the  headmaster's  wife 
and  all  our  ladies;  he  went  on  weighing  his  future 
duties  and  responsibilities,  and  meanwhile  he  went 
for  a  walk  with  Varinka  almost  every  day  —  possibly 
he  thought  that  this  was  necessary  in  his  position  — 
and  came  to  see  me  to  talk  about  family  life.  And 
in  all  probability  in  the  end  he  would  have  proposed 
to  her,  and  would  have  made  one  of  those  unneces- 
sary, stupid  marriages  such  as  are  made  by  thousands 
among  us  from  being  bored  and  having  nothing  to 
do,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  kolossalische  scandal.  I 
must  mention  that  Varinka's  brother,  Kovalenko,  de- 
tested Byelikov  from  the  first  day  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, and  could  not  endure  him. 


260  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  '  I  don't  understand,'  he  used  to  say  to  us,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  — '  I  don't  understand  how  you 
can  put  up  with  that  sneak,  that  nasty  phiz.  Ugh! 
how  can  you  live  here!  The  atmosphere  is  stifling 
and  unclean  !  Do  you  call  yourselves  schoolmasters, 
teachers?  You  are  paltry  government  clerks.  You 
keep,  not  a  temple  of  science,  but  a  department  for 
red  tape  and  loyal  behaviour,  and  it  smells  as  sour 
as  a  police-station.  No,  my  friends;  I  will  stay  with 
you  for  a  while,  and  then  I  will  go  to  my  farm  and 
there  catch  crabs  and  teach  the  Little  Russians.  I 
shall  go,  and  you  can  stay  here  with  your  Judas  — 
damn  his  soul !  ' 

"  Or  he  would  laugh  till  he  cried,  first  in  a  loud 
bass,  then  in  a  shrill,  thin  laugh,  and  ask  me,  waving 
his  hands : 

"'What  does  he  sit  here  for?  What  does  he 
want?     He  sits  and  stares.' 

"  He  even  gave  Byelikov  a  nickname,  '  The 
Spider.'  And  it  will  readily  be  understood  that  we 
avoided  talking  to  him  of  his  sister's  being  about  to 
marry  '  The  Spider.' 

"  And  on  one  occasion,  when  the  headmaster's  wife 
hinted  to  him  what  a  good  thing  it  would  be  to  se- 
cure his  sister's  future  with  such  a  reliable,  univer- 
sally respected  man  as  Byelikov,  he  frowned  and  mut- 
tered: 

"  '  It's  not  my  business;  let  her  marry  a  reptile 
if  she  likes.  I  don't  like  meddling  in  other  people's 
affairs.' 

"  Now  hear  what  happened  next.  Some  mis- 
chievous person  drew  a  caricature  of  Byelikov  walk- 


The  Man  in  a  Case  261 

ing  along  in  his  goloshes  with  his  trousers  tucked  up, 
under  his  umbrella,  with  Varinka  on  his  arm;  below, 
the  inscription  '  Anthropos  in  love.'  The  expression 
was  caught  to  a  marvel,  you  know.  The  artist  must 
have  worked  for  more  than  one  night,  for  the  teach- 
ers of  both  the  boys'  and  girls'  high-schools,  the 
teachers  of  the  seminary,  the  government  officials, 
all  received  a  copy.  Byelikov  received  one,  too. 
The  caricature  made  a  very  painful  impression  on 
him. 

"  We  went  out  together;  it  was  the  first  of  May, 
a  Sunday,  and  all  of  us,  the  boys  and  the  teachers, 
had  agreed  to  meet  at  the  high-school  and  then  to 
go  for  a  walk  together  to  a  wood  beyond  the  town. 
We  set  off,  and  he  was  green  in  the  face  and  gloomier 
than  a  storm-cloud. 

"'What  wicked,  ill-natured  people  there  are!' 
he  said,  and  his  lips  quivered. 

"  I  felt  really  sorry  for  him.  We  were  walking 
along,  and  all  of  a  sudden  —  would  you  believe  it? 
—  Kovalenko  came  bowling  along  on  a  bicycle,  and 
after  him,  also  on  a  bicycle,  Varinka,  flushed  and  ex- 
hausted, but  good-humoured  and  gay. 

"  '  We  are  going  on  ahead,'  she  called.  '  What 
lovely  weather !     Awfully  lovely !  ' 

"  And  they  both  disappeared  from  our  sight. 
Byelikov  turned  white  instead  of  green,  and  seemed 
petrified.     He  stopped  short  and  stared  at  me.   .   .  . 

"  '  What  is  the  meaning  of  it?  Tell  me,  please  1  ' 
he  asked.  '  Can  my  eyes  have  deceived  me?  Is  it 
the  proper  thing  for  high-school  masters  and  ladies 
to  ride  bicycles  ?  ' 


262  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"'What  is  there  improper  about  it?'  I  said. 
'  Let  them  ride  and  enjoy  themselves.' 

"  '  But  how  can  that  be?  '  he  cried,  amazed  at  my 
calm.     '  What  are  you  saying?  ' 

"  And  he  was  so  shocked  that  he  was  unwilling  to 
go  on,  and  returned  home. 

"  Next  day  he  was  continually  twitching  and 
nervously  rubbing  his  hands,  and  it  was  evident  from 
his  face  that  he  was  unwell.  And  he  left  before  his 
work  was  over,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  And 
he  ate  no  dinner.  Towards  evening  he  wrapped 
himself  up  warmly,  though  it  was  quite  warm 
weather,  and  sallied  out  to  the  Kovalenkos'.  Var- 
inka  was  out;  he  found  her  brother,  however. 

"  '  Pray  sit  down,'  Kovalenko  said  coldly,  with  a 
frown.  His  face  looked  sleepy;  he  had  just  had  a 
nap  after  dinner,  and  was  in  a  very  bad  humour. 

"  Byelikov  sat  in  silence  for  ten  minutes,  and  then 
began: 

"  '  I  have  come  to  see  you  to  relieve  my  mind.  I 
am  very,  very  much  troubled.  Some  scurrilous  fel- 
low has  drawn  an  absurd  caricature  of  me  and  an- 
other person,  in  whom  we  are  both  deeply  interested. 
I  regard  it  as  a  duty  to  assure  you  that  I  have  had  no 
hand  in  it.  ...  I  have  given  no  sort  of  ground  for 
such  ridicule  —  on  the  contrary,  I  have  always  be- 
haved in  every  way  like  a  gentleman.' 

"  Kovalenko  sat  sulky  and  silent.  Byelikov  waited 
a  little,  and  went  on  slowly  in  a  mournful  voice: 

"  '  And  I  have  something  else  to  say  to  you.  I 
have  been  in  the  service  for  years,  while  you  have 
only  lately  entered   it,   and   I   consider  it  my  duty 


The  Man  in  a  Case  263 

as  an  older  colleague  to  give  you  a  warning.  You 
ride  on  a  bicycle,  and  that  pastime  is  utterly  unsuit- 
able for  an  educator  of  youth.' 

"  '  Why  so?  '  asked  Kovalenko  in  his  bass. 

"  '  Surely  that  needs  no  explanation,  Mihail  Sav- 
vitch  —  surely  you  can  understand  that?  If  the 
teacher  rides  a  bicycle,  what  can  you  expect  the  pupils 
to  do?  You  will  have  them  walking  on  their  heads 
next!  And  so  long  as  there  is  no  formal  permission 
to  do  so,  it  is  out  of  the  question.  I  was  horrified 
yesterday!  When  I  saw  your  sister  everything 
seemed  dancing  before  my  eyes.  A  lady  or  a  young 
girl  on  a  bicycle  —  it's  awful !  ' 

"  '  What  is  it  you  want  exactly  ?  ' 

"  '  All  I  want  is  to  warn  you,  Mihail  Savvitch. 
You  are  a  young  man,  you  have  a  future  before  you, 
you  must  be  very,  very  careful  in  your  behaviour,  and 
you  are  so  careless  —  oh,  so  careless !  You  go  about 
in  an  embroidered  shirt,  are  constantly  seen  in  the 
street  carrying  books,  and  now  the  bicycle,  too.  The 
headmaster  will  learn  that  you  and  your  sister  ride 
the  bicycle,  and  then  it  will  reach  the  higher  au- 
thorities.  .  .  .  Will   that  be   a   good  thing? ' 

"  '  It's  no  business  of  anybody  else  if  my  sister  and 
I  do  bicycle !  '  said  Kovalenko,  and  he  turned  crim- 
son. '  And  damnation  take  any  one  who  meddles  in 
my  private  affairs  !  ' 

"  Byelikov  turned  pale  and  got  up. 

11  '  If  you  speak  to  me  in  that  tone  I  cannot  con- 
tinue,' he  said.  '  And  I  beg  you  never  to  express 
yourself  like  that  about  our  superiors  in  my  pres- 
ence; you  ought  to  be  respectful  to  the  authorities.' 


264  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

"  '  Why,  have  I  said  any  harm  of  the  authorities?  ' 
asked  Kovalenko,  looking  at  him  wrathfully. 
1  Please  leave  me  alone.  I  am  an  honest  man,  and 
do  not  care  to  talk  to  a  gentleman  like  you.  I 
don't  like  sneaks  !  ' 

"  Byelikov  flew  into  a  nervous  flutter,  and  began 
hurriedly  putting  on  his  coat,  with  an  expression  of 
horror  on  his  face.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  had  been  spoken  to  so  rudely. 

"  '  You  can  say  what  you  please,'  he  said,  as  he 
went  out  from  the  entry  to  the  landing  on  the  stair- 
case. '  I  ought  only  to  warn  you :  possibly  some  one 
may  have  overheard  us,  and  that  our  conversation 
may  not  be  misunderstood  and  harm  come  of  it,  I 
shall  be  compelled  to  inform  our  headmaster  of  our 
conversation  ...  in  its  main  features.  I  am  bound 
to  do  so.' 

"  '  Inform  him?  You  can  go  and  make  your  re- 
port! ' 

"  Kovalenko  seized  him  from  behind  by  the  collar 
and  gave  him  a  push,  and  Byelikov  rolled  down- 
stairs, thudding  with  his  goloshes.  The  staircase 
was  high  and  steep,  but  he  rolled  to  the  bottom  un- 
hurt, got  up,  and  touched  his  nose  to  see  whether 
his  spectacles  were  all  right.  But  just  as  he  was 
falling  down  the  stairs  Varinka  came  in,  and  with 
her  two  ladies;  they  stood  below  staring,  and  to 
Byelikov  this  was  more  terrible  than  anything.  I  be- 
lieve he  would  rather  have  broken  his  neck  or  both 
legs  than  have  been  an  object  of  ridicule.  Why, 
now  the  whole  town  would  hear  of  it;  it  would  come 
to  the  headmaster's  ears,  would  reach  the  higher 


The  Man  in  a  Case  265 

authorities  —  oh,  it  might  lead  to  something! 
There  would  be  another  caricature,  and  it  would  all 
end  in  his  being  asked  to  resign  his  post.   .  .  . 

"  When  he  got  up,  Varinka  recognized  him,  and, 
looking  at  his  ridiculous  face,  his  crumpled  overcoat, 
and  his  goloshes,  not  understanding  what  had  hap- 
pened and  supposing  that  he  had  slipped  down  by 
accident,  could  not  restrain  herself,  and  laughed  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  all  the  flats: 

"'Ha-ha-ha!' 

"  And  this  pealing,  ringing  '  Ha-ha-ha !  '  was  the 
last  straw  that  put  an  end  to  everything:  to  the  pro- 
posed match  and  to  Byelikov's  earthly  existence. 
He  did  not  hear  what  Varinka  said  to  him;  he  saw 
nothing.  On  reaching  home,  the  first  thing  he  did 
was  to  remove  her  portrait  from  the  table;  then  he 
went  to  bed,  and  he  never  got  up  again. 

"  Three  days  later  Afanasy  came  to  me  and  asked 
whether  we  should  not  send  for  the  doctor,  as  there 
was  something  wrong  with  his  master.  I  went  in  to 
Byelikov.  He  lay  silent  behind  the  curtain,  covered 
with  a  quilt;  if  one  asked  him  a  question,  he  said 
'  Yes  '  or  '  No  '  and  not  another  sound.  He  lay 
there  while  Afanasy,  gloomy  and  scowling,  hovered 
about  him,  sighing  heavily,  and  smelling  like  a  pot- 
house. 

"  A  month  later  Byelikov  died.  We  all  went  to 
his  funeral  —  that  is,  both  the  high-schools  and  the 
seminary.  Now  when  he  was  lying  in  his  coffin  his 
expression  was  mild,  agreeable,  even  cheerful,  as 
though  he  were  glad  that  he  had  at  last  been  put  into 
a  case  which  he  would  never  leave  again.     Yes,  he 


266  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

had  attained  his  ideal!  And,  as  though  in  his  hon- 
our, it  was  dull,  rainy  weather  on  the  day  of  his  fun- 
eral, and  we  all  wore  goloshes  and  took  our  um- 
brellas. Varinka,  too,  was  at  the  funeral,  and  when 
the  coffin  was  lowered  into  the  grave  she  burst  into 
tears.  I  have  noticed  that  Little  Russian  women  are 
always  laughing  or  crying  —  no  intermediate  mood. 

"  One  must  confess  that  to  bury  people  like  Bye- 
likov  is  a  great  pleasure.  As  we  were  returning 
from  the  cemetery  we  wore  discreet  Lenten  faces; 
no  one  wanted  to  display  this  feeling  of  pleasure  — 
a  feeling  like  that  we  had  experienced  long,  long  ago 
as  children  when  our  elders  had  gone  out  and  we 
ran  about  the  garden  for  an  hour  or  two,  enjoying 
complete  freedom.  Ah,  freedom,  freedom !  The 
merest  hint,  the  faintest  hope  of  its  possibility  gives 
wings  to  the  soul,  does  it  not? 

"  We  returned  from  the  cemetery  in  a  good  hu- 
mour. But  not  more  than  a  week  had  passed  before 
life  went  on  as  in  the  past,  as  gloomy,  oppressive, 
and  senseless  —  a  life  not  forbidden  by  government 
prohibition,  but  not  fully  permitted,  either:  it  was 
no  better.  And,  indeed,  though  we  had  buried  Bye- 
likov,  how  many  such  men  in  cases  were  left,  how 
many  more  of  them  there  will  be!  " 

11  That's  just  how  it  is,"  said  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  and 
he  lighted  his  pipe. 

"  How  many  more  of  them  there  will  be !  "  re- 
peated Burkin. 

The  schoolmaster  came  out  of  the  barn.  He  was 
a  short,  stout  man,  completely  bald,  with  a  black 


The  Man  in  a  Case  267 

beard  down  to  his  waist.  The  two  dogs  came  out 
with  him. 

"  What  a  moon!  "  he  said,  looking  upwards. 

It  was  midnight.  On  the  right  could  be  seen  the 
whole  village,  a  long  street  stretching  far  away  for 
four  miles.  All  was  buried  in  deep  silent  slumber; 
not  a  movement,  not  a  sound;  one  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that  nature  could  be  so  still.  When  on  a  moon- 
light night  you  see  a  broad  village  street,  with  its 
cottages,  haystacks,  and  slumbering  willows,  a  feel- 
ing of  calm  comes  over  the  soul;  in  this  peace, 
wrapped  away  from  care,  toil,  and  sorrow  in  the 
darkness  of  night,  it  is  mild,  melancholy,  beautiful, 
and  it  seems  as  though  the  stars  look  down  upon  it 
kindly  and  with  tenderness,  and  as  though  there  were 
no  evil  on  earth  and  all  were  well.  On  the  left  the 
open  country  began  from  the  end  of  the  village;  it 
could  be  seen  stretching  far  away  to  the  horizon, 
and  there  was  no  movement,  no  sound  in  that  whole 
expanse  bathed  in  moonlight. 

"  Yes,  that  is  just  how  it  is,"  repeated  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch;  "  and  isn't  our  living  in  town,  airless  and 
crowded,  our  writing  useless  papers,  our  playing  vint 
—  isn't  that  all  a  sort  of  case  for  us?  And  our 
spending  our  whole  lives  among  trivial,  fussy  men 
and  silly,  idle  women,  our  talking  and  our  listening 
to  all  sorts  of  nonsense  —  isn't  that  a  case  for  us, 
too?  If  you  like,  I  will  tell  you  a  very  edifying 
story." 

"No;   it's  time  we  were   asleep,"   said  Burkin. 

11  Tell  it  tomorrow." 


268  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

They  went  into  the  barn  and  lay  down  on  the 
hay.  And  they  were  both  covered  up  and  beginning 
to  doze  when  they  suddenly  heard  light  footsteps  — 
patter,  patter.  .  .  .  Some  one  was  walking  not  far 
from  the  barn,  walking  a  little  and  stopping,  and  a 
minute  later,  patter,  patter  again.  .  .  .  The  dogs 
began  growling. 

"  That's  Mavra,"  said  Burkin. 

The  footsteps  died  away. 

"  You  see  and  hear  that  they  lie,"  said  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch,  turning  over  on  the  other  side,  "  and  they  call 
you  a  fool  for  putting  up  with  their  lying.  You  en- 
dure insult  and  humiliation,  and  dare  not  openly  say 
that  you  are  on  the  side  of  the  honest  and  the'  free, 
and  you  lie  and  smile  yourself;  and  all  that  for  the 
sake  of  a  crust  of  bread,  for  the  sake  of  a  warm 
corner,  for  the  sake  of  a  wretched  little  worthless 
rank  in  the  service.  No,  one  can't  go  on  living  like 
this." 

"  Well,  you  are  off  on  another  tack  now,  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "  Let  us  go  to 
sleep!" 

And  ten  minutes  later  Burkin  was  asleep.  But 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  kept  sighing  and  turning  over  from 
side  to  side;  then  he  got  up,  went  outside  again,  and, 
sitting  in  the  doorway,  lighted  his  pipe. 


GOOSEBERRIES 


GOOSEBERRIES 

The  whole  sky  had  been  overcast  with  rain-clouds 
from  early  morning;  it  was  a  still  day,  not  hot,  but 
heavy,  as  it  is  in  grey  dull  weather  when  the  clouds 
have  been  hanging  over  the  country  for  a  long 
while,  when  one  expects  rain  and  it  does  not  come. 
Ivan  Ivanovitch,  the  veterinary  surgeon,  and  Burkin, 
the  high-school  teacher,  were  already  tired  from 
walking,  and  the  fields  seemed  to  them  endless.  Far 
ahead  of  them  they  could  just  see  the  windmills  of 
the  village  of  Mironositskoe;  on  the  right  stretched 
a  row  of  hillocks  which  disappeared  in  the  distance 
behind  the  village,  and  they  both  knew  that  this  was 
the  bank  of  the  river,  that  there  were  meadows, 
green  willows,  homesteads  there,  and  that  if  one 
stood  on  one  of  the  hillocks  one  could  see  from  it 
the  same  vast  plain,  telegraph-wires,  and  a  train 
which  in  the  distance  looked  like  a  crawling  cater- 
pillar, and  that  in  clear  weather  one  could  even  see 
the  town.  Now,  in  still  weather,  when  all  nature 
seemed  mild  and  dreamy,  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and  Bur- 
kin  were  filled  with  love  of  that  countryside,  and  both 
thought  how  great,  how  beautiful  a  land  it  was. 

"  Last  time  we  were  in  Prokofy's  barn,"  said 
Burkin,  "  you  were  about  to  tell  me  a  story." 

"  Yes;  I  meant  to  tell  you  about  my  brother." 

271 


272  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  lighted  a 
pipe  to  begin  to  tell  his  story,  but  just  at  that  moment 
the  rain  began.  And  five  minutes  later  heavy  rain 
came  down,  covering  the  sky,  and  it  was  hard  to  tell 
when  it  would  be  over.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and  Burkin 
stopped  in  hesitation;  the  dogs,  already  drenched, 
stood  with  their  tails  between  their  legs  gazing  at 
tKem  feelingly. 

"  We  must  take  shelter  somewhere,"  said  Burkin. 
"  Let  us  go  to  Alehin's;  it's  close  by." 

"  Come  along." 

They  turned  aside  and  walked  through  mown 
fields,  sometimes  going  straight  forward,  sometimes 
turning  to  the  right,  till  they  came  out  on  the  road. 
Soon  they  saw  poplars,  a  garden,  then  the  red  roofs 
of  barns;  there  was  a  gleam  of  the  river,  and  the 
view  opened  on  to  a  broad  expanse  of  water  with  a 
windmill  and  a  white  bath-house:  this  was  Sofino, 
where  Alehin  lived. 

The  watermill  was  at  work,  drowning  the  sound  of 
the  rain;  the  dam  was  shaking.  Here  wet  horses 
with  drooping  heads  were  standing  near  their  carts, 
and  men  were  walking  about  covered  with  sacks. 
It  was  damp,  muddy,  and  desolate ;  the  water  looked 
cold  and  malignant.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and  Burkin 
were  already  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  wetness,  messi- 
ness,  and  discomfort  all  over;  their  feet  were  heavy 
with  mud,  and  when,  crossing  the  dam,  they  went  up 
to  the  barns,  they  were  silent,  as  though  they  were 
angry  with  one  another. 

In  one  of  the  barns  there  was  the  sound  of  a 
winnowing  machine,  the  door  was  open,  and  clouds 


Gooseberries  273 

of  dust  were  coming  from  it.  In  the  doorway  was 
standing  Alehin  himself,  a  man  of  forty,  tall  and 
stout,  with  long  hair,  more  like  a  professor  or  an 
artist  than  a  landowner.  He  had  on  a  white  shirt 
that  badly  needed  washing,  a  rope  for  a  belt,  draw- 
ers instead  of  trousers,  and  his  boots,  too,  were 
plastered  up  with  mud  and  straw.  His  eyes  and 
nose  were  black  with  dust.  He  recognized  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  and  Burkin,  and  was  apparently  much 
delighted  to  see  them. 

"  Go  into  the  house,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  smiling; 
"  I'll  come  directly,  this  minute." 

It  was  a  big  two-storeyed  house.  Alehin  lived 
in  the  lower  storey,  with  arched  ceilings  and  little 
windows,  where  the  bailiffs  had  once  lived;  here 
everything  was  plain,  and  there  was  a  smell  of  rye 
bread,  cheap  vodka,  and  harness.  He  went  upstairs 
into  the  best  rooms  only  on  rare  occasions,  when 
visitors  came.  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and  Burkin  were 
met  in  the  house  by  a  maid-servant,  a  young  woman 
so  beautiful  that  they  both  stood  still  and  looked  at 
one  another. 

"  You  can't  imagine  how  delighted  I  am  to  see 
you,  my  friends,"  said  Alehin,  going  into  the  hall 
with  them.  "  It  is  a  surprise!  Pelagea,"  he  said, 
addressing  the  girl,  "  give  our  visitors  something  to 
change  into.  And,  by  the  way,  I  will  change  too. 
Only  I  must  first  go  and  wash,  for  I  almost  think  I 
have  not  washed  since  spring.  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
come  into  the  bath-house?  and  meanwhile  they  will 
get  things  ready  here." 

Beautiful  Pelagea,  looking  so   refined  and  soft, 


274  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

brought  them  towels  and  soap,  and  Alehin  went  to 
the  bath-house  with  his  guests. 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  I  had  a  wash,"  he  said, 
undressing.  "  I  have  got  a  nice  bath-house,  as  you 
see  —  my  father  built  it  —  but  I  somehow  never 
have  time  to  wash." 

He  sat  down  on  the  steps  and  soaped  his  long  hair 
and  his  neck,  and  the  water  round  him  turned  brown. 

"  Yes,  I  must  say,"  said  Ivan  Ivanovitch  mean- 
ingly, looking  at  his  head. 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  I  washed  .  .  ."  said  Alehin 
with  embarrassment,  giving  himself  a  second  soap- 
ing, and  the  water  near  him  turned  dark  blue,  like 
ink. 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  went  outside,  plunged  into  the 
water  with  a  loud  splash,  and  swam  in  the  rain,  fling- 
ing his  arms  out  wide.  He  stirred  the  water  into 
waves  which  set  the  white  lilies  bobbing  up  and 
down;  he  swam  to  the  very  middle  of  the  millpond 
and  dived,  and  came  up  a  minute  later  in  another 
place,  and  swam  on,  and  kept  on  diving,  trying  to 
touch  the  bottom. 

"  Oh,  my  goodness!  "  he  repeated  continually,  en- 
joying himself  thoroughly.  "Oh,  my  goodness!" 
He  swam  to  the  mill,  talked  to  the  peasants  there, 
then  returned  and  lay  on  his  back  in  the  middle  of 
the  pond,  turning  his  face  to  the  rain.  Burkin  and 
Alehin  were  dressed  and  ready  to  go,  but  he  still  went 
on  swimming  and  diving.  "  Oh,  my  good- 
ness!  .  .  ."  he  said.  "Oh,  Lord,  have  mercy  on 
me!   .  .  ." 

"  That's  enough !  "  Burkin  shouted  to  him. 


Gooseberries  275 

They  went  back  to  the  house.  And  only  when 
the  lamp  was  lighted  in  the  big  drawing-room  up- 
stairs, and  Burkin  and  Ivan  Ivanovitch,  attired  in 
silk  dressing-gowns  and  warm  slippers,  were  sitting 
in  arm-chairs;  and  Alehin,  washed  and  combed,  in  a 
new  coat,  was  walking  about  the  drawing-room,  evi- 
dently enjoying  the  feeling  of  warmth,  cleanliness, 
dry  clothes,  and  light  shoes;  and  when  lovely  Pel- 
agea,  stepping  noiselessly  on  the  carpet  and  smiling 
softly,  handed  tea  and  jam  on  a  tray  —  only  then 
Ivan  Ivanovitch  began  on  his  story,  and  it  seemed 
as  though  not  only  Burkin  and  Alehin  were  listening, 
but  also  the  ladies,  young  and  old,  and  the  officers 
who  looked  down  upon  them  sternly  and  calmly  from 
their  gold  frames. 

"  There  are  two  of  us  brothers,"  he  began — "  I, 
Ivan  Ivanovitch,  and  my  brother,  Nikolay  Ivano- 
vitch, two  years  younger.  I  went  in  for  a  learned 
profession  and  became  a  veterinary  surgeon,  while 
Nikolay  sat  in  a  government  office  from  the  time  he 
was  nineteen.  Our  father,  Tchimsha-Himalaisky, 
was  a  kantonist,  but  he  rose  to  be  an  officer  and  left 
us  a  little  estate  and  the  rank  of  nobility.  After  his 
death  the  little  estate  went  in  debts  and  legal  ex- 
penses; but,  anyway,  we  had  spent  our  childhood 
running  wild  in  the  country.  Like  peasant  children, 
we  passed  our  days  and  nights  in  the  fields  and  the 
woods,  looked  after  horses,  stripped  the  bark  off 
the  trees,  fished,  and  so  on.  .  .  .  And,  you  know, 
whoever  has  once  in  his  life  caught  perch  or  has  seen 
the  migrating  of  the  thrushes  in  autumn,  watched 
how  they  float  in  flocks  over  the  village  on  bright, 


276  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

cool  days,  he  will  never  be  a  real  townsman,  and  will 
have  a  yearning  for  freedom  to  the  day  of  his  death. 
My  brother  was  miserable  in  the  government  office. 
Years  passed  by,  and  he  went  on  sitting  in  the  same 
place,  went  on  writing  the  same  papers  and  thinking 
of  one  and  the  same  thing  —  how  to  get  into  the 
country.  And  this  yearning  by  degrees  passed  into 
a  definite  desire,  into  a  dream  of  buying  himself  a 
little  farm  somewhere  on  the  banks  of  a  river  or  a 
lake. 

"  He  was  a  gentle,  good-natured  fellow,  and  I  was 
fond  of  him,  but  I  never  sympathized  with  this  de- 
sire to  shut  himself  up  for  the  rest  of  his  life  in  a 
little  farm  of  his  own.  It's  the  correct  thing  to  say 
that  a  man  needs  no  more  than  six  feet  of  earth. 
But  six  feet  is  what  a  corpse  needs,  not  a  man.  And 
they  say,  too,  now,  that  if  our  intellectual  classes  are 
attracted  to  the  land  and  yearn  for  a  farm,  it's  a  good 
thing.  But  these  farms  are  just  the  same  as  six 
feet  of  earth.  To  retreat  from  town,  from  the 
struggle,  from  the  bustle  of  life,  to  retreat  and  bury 
oneself  in  one's  farm  —  it's  not  life,  it's  egoism,  lazi- 
ness, it's  monasticism  of  a  sort,  but  monasticism 
without  good  works.  A  man  does  not  need  six  feet 
of  earth  or  a  farm,  but  the  whole  globe,  all  nature, 
where  he  can  have  room  to  display  all  the  qualities 
and  peculiarities  of  his  free  spirit. 

"  My  brother  Nikolay,  sitting  in  his  government 
office,  dreamed  of  how  he  would  eat  his  own  cab- 
bages, which  would  fill  the  whole  yard  with  such  a 
savoury  smell,  take  his  meals  on  the  green  grass, 


Gooseberries  277 

sleep  in  the  sun,  sit  for  whole  hours  on  the  seat  by 
the  gate  gazing  at  the  fields  and  the  forest.  Garden- 
ing books  and  the  agricultural  hints  in  calendars 
were  his  delight,  his  favourite  spiritual  sustenance; 
he  enjoyed  reading  newspapers,  too,  but  the  only 
things  he  read  in  them  were  the  advertisements  of 
so  many  acres  of  arable  land  and  a  grass  meadow 
with  farm-houses  and  buildings,  a  river,  a  garden,  a 
mill  and  millponds,  for  sale.  And  his  imagination 
pictured  the  garden-paths,  flowers  and  fruit,  starling 
cotes,  the  carp  in  the  pond,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know.  These  imaginary  pictures  were  of  dif- 
ferent kinds  according  to  the  advertisements  which 
he  came  across,  but  for  some  reason  in  every  one 
of  them  he  had  always  to  have  gooseberries.  He 
could  not  imagine  a  homestead,  he  could  not  picture 
an  idyllic  nook,  without  gooseberries. 

"  '  Country  life  has  its  conveniences,'  he  would 
sometimes  say.  '  You  sit  on  the  verandah  and  you 
drink  tea,  while  your  ducks  swim  on  the  pond,  there 
is  a  delicious  smell  everywhere,  and  .  .  .  and  the 
gooseberries  are  growing.' 

"  He  used  to  draw  a  map  of  his  property,  and  in 
every  map  there  were  the  same  things —  (a)  house 
for  the  family,  (b)  servants'  quarters,  (c)  kitchen- 
garden,  (d)  gooseberry-bushes.  He  lived  parsi- 
moniously, was  frugal  in  food  and  drink,  his  clothes 
were  beyond  description;  he  looked  like  a  beggar, 
but  kept  on  saving  and  putting  money  in  the  bank. 
He  grew  fearfully  avaricious.  I  did  not  like  to  look 
at  him,  and  I  used  to  give  him  something  and  send 


278  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

him  presents  for  Christmas  and  Easter,  but  he  used 
to  save  that  too.  Once  a  man  is  absorbed  by  an 
idea  there  is  no  doing  anything  with  him. 

"Years  passed:  he  was  transferred  to  another 
province.  He  was  over  forty,  and  he  was  still  read- 
ing the  advertisements  in  the  papers  and  saving  up. 
Then  I  heard  he  was  married.  Still  with  the  same 
object  of  buying  a  farm  and  having  gooseberries, 
he  married  an  elderly  and  ugly  widow  without  a 
trace  of  feeling  for  her,  simply  because  she  had  filthy 
lucre.  He  went  on  living  frugally  after  marrying 
her,  and  kept  her  short  of  food,  while  he  put  her 
money  in  the  bank  in  his  name. 

"  Her  first  husband  had  been  a  postmaster,  and 
with  him  she  was  accustomed  to  pies  and  home-made 
wines,  while  with  her  second  husband  she  did  not 
get  enough  black  bread;  she  began  to  pine  away  with 
this  sort  of  life,  and  three  years  later  she  gave  up 
her  soul  to  God.  And  I  need  hardly  say  that  my 
brother  never  for  one  moment  imagined  that  he  was 
responsible  for  her  death.  Money,  like  vodka, 
makes  a  man  queer.  In  our  town  there  was  a 
merchant  who,  before  he  died,  ordered  a  plateful  of 
honey  and  ate  up  all  his  money  and  lottery  tickets 
with  the  honey,  so  that  no  one  might  get  the  benefit 
of  it.  While  T  was  inspecting  cattle  at  a  railway- 
station,  a  cattle-dealer  fell  under  an  engine  and  had 
his  leg  cut  off.  We  carried  him  into  the  waiting- 
room,  the  blood  was  flowing  —  it  was  a  horrible 
thing  —  and  he  kept  asking  them  to  look  for  his 
leg  and  was  very  much  worried  about  it;  there  were 


Gooseberries  279 

twenty  roubles  in  the  boot  on  the  leg  that  had  been 
cut  off,  and  he  was  afraid  they  would  be  lost." 

"  That's  a  story  from  a  different  opera,"  said 
Burkin. 

"  After  his  wife's  death,"  Ivan  Ivanovitch  went 
on,  after  thinking  for  half  a  minute,  "  my  brother 
began  looking  out  for  an  estate  for  himself.  Of 
course,  you  may  look  about  for  five  years  and  yet 
end  by  making  a  mistake,  and  buying  something  quite 
different  from  what  you  have  dreamed  of.  My 
brother  Nikolay  bought  through  an  agent  a  mort- 
gaged estate  of  three  hundred  and  thirty  acres,  with 
a  house  for  the  family,  with  servants'  quarters,  with 
a  park,  but  with  no  orchard,  no  gooseberry-bushes, 
and  no  duck-pond;  there  was  a  river,  but  the  water 
in  it  was  the  colour  of  coffee,  because  on  one  side 
of  the  estate  there  was  a  brickyard  and  on  the  other 
a  factory  for  burning  bones.  But  Nikolay  Ivano- 
vitch did  not  grieve  much;  he  ordered  twenty  goose- 
berry-bushes, planted  them,  and  began  living  as  a 
country  gentleman. 

"  Last  year  I  went  to  pay  him  a  visit.  I  thought 
I  would  go  and  see  what  it  was  like.  In  his  letters 
my  brother  called  his  estate  '  Tchumbaroklov  Waste, 
alias  Himalaiskoe.'  I  reached  '  alias  Himalaiskoe  ' 
in  the  afternoon.  It  was  hot.  Everywhere  there 
were  ditches,  fences,  hedges,  fir-trees  planted  in  rows, 
and  there  was  no  knowing  how  to  get  to  the  yard, 
where  to  put  one's  horse.  I  went  up  to  the  house, 
and  was  met  by  a  fat  red  dog  that  looked  like  a  pig. 
It  wanted  to  bark,  but  it  was  too  lazy.     The  cook, 


280  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

a  fat,  barefooted  woman,  came  out  of  the  kitchen, 
and  she,  too,  looked  like  a  pig,  and  said  that  her 
master  was  resting  after  dinner.  I  went  in  to  see 
my  brother.  He  was  sitting  up  in  bed  with  a  quilt 
over  his  legs;  he  had  grown  older,  fatter,  wrinkled; 
his  cheeks,  his  nose,  and  his  mouth  all  stuck  out  — 
he  looked  as  though  he  might  begin  grunting  into  the 
quilt  at  any  moment. 

"  We  embraced  each  other,  and  shed  tears  of  joy 
and  of  sadness  at  the  thought  that  we  had  once  been 
young  and  now  were  both  grey-headed  and  near  the 
grave.  He  dressed,  and  led  me  out  to  show  me  the 
estate. 

11  '  Well,  how  are  you  getting  on  here?  '  I  asked. 

"  '  Oh,  all  right,  thank  God;  I  am  getting  on  very 
well.' 

"  He  was  no  more  a  poor  timid  clerk,  but  a  real 
landowner,  a  gentleman.  He  was  already  accus- 
tomed to  it,  had  grown  used  to  it,  and  liked  it.  He 
ate  a  great  deal,  went  to  the  bath-house,  was  grow- 
ing stout,  was  already  at  law  with  the  village  com- 
mune and  both  factories,  and  was  very  much  offended 
when  the  peasants  did  not  call  him  '  Your  Honour.' 
And  he  concerned  himself  with  the  salvation  of 
his  soul  in  a  substantial,  gentlemanly  manner,  and 
performed  deeds  of  charity,  not  simply,  but  with 
an  air  of  consequence.  And  what  deeds  of  charity! 
He  treated  the  peasants  for  every  sort  of  disease 
with  soda  and  castor  oil,  and  on  his  name-day  had  a 
thanksgiving  service  in  the  middle  of  the  village,  and 
then  treated  the  peasants  to  a  gallon  of  vodka  —  he 
thought  that  was  the  thing  to  do.     Oh,  those  horrible 


Gooseberries  281 

gallons  of  vodka  !  One  day  the  fat  landowner  hauls 
the  peasants  up  before  the  district  captain  for  tres- 
pass, and  next  day,  in  honour  of  a  holiday,  treats 
them  to  a  gallon  of  vodka,  and  they  drink  and  shout 
'  Hurrah !  '  and  when  they  are  drunk  bow  down  to 
his  feet.  A  change  of  life  for  the  better,  and  being 
well-fed  and  idle  develop  in  a  Russian  the  most  in- 
solent self-conceit.  Nikolay  Ivanovitch,  who  at  one 
time  in  the  government  office  was  afraid  to  have  any 
views  of  his  own,  now  could  say  nothing  that  was 
not  gospel  truth,  and  uttered  such  truths  in  the  tone 
of  a  prime  minister.  '  Education  is  essential,  but 
for  the  peasants  it  is  premature.'  '  Corporal  punish- 
ment is  harmful  as  a  rule,  but  in  some  cases  it  is 
necessary  and  there  is  nothing  to  take  its  place.' 

"  '  I  know  the  peasants  and  understand  how  to 
treat  them,'  he  would  say.  '  The  peasants  like  me. 
I  need  only  to  hold  up  my  little  finger  and  the  peas- 
ants will  do  anything  I  like.' 

11  And  all  this,  observe,  was  uttered  with  a  wise, 
benevolent  smile.  He  repeated  twenty  times  over 
1  We  noblemen,'  *  I  as  a  noble  ' ;  obviously  he  did  not 
remember  that  our  grandfather  was  a  peasant,  and 
our  father  a  soldier.  Even  our  surname  Tchimsha- 
Himalaisky,  in  reality  so  incongruous,  seemed  to  him 
now  melodious,  distinguished,   and  very  agreeable. 

"  But  the  point  just  now  is  not  he,  but  myself.  I 
want  to  tell  you  about  the  change  that  took  place 
in  me  during  the  brief  hours  I  spent  at  his  country 
place.  In  the  evening,  when  we  were  drinking  tea, 
the  cook  put  on  the  table  a  plateful  of  gooseberries. 
They  were  not  bought,  but  his  own  goosberries,  gath- 


282  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

ered  for  the  first  time  since  the  bushes  were  planted. 
Nikolay  Ivanovitch  laughed  and  looked  for  a  minute 
in  silence  at  the  gooseberries,  with  tears  in  his  eyes; 
he  could  not  speak  for  excitement.  Then  he  put 
one  gooseberry  in  his  mouth,  looked  at  me  with  the 
triumph  of  a  child  who  has  at  last  received  his  fa- 
vourite toy,  and  said : 

11  '  How  delicious!  ' 

"  And  he  ate  them  greedily,  continually  repeating, 
1  Ah,  how  delicious !     Do  taste  them !  ' 

"  They  were  sour  and  unripe,  but,  as  Pushkin  says : 

"  '  Dearer  to  us  the  falsehood  that  exalts 
Than  hosts  of  baser  truths.' 

"  I  saw  a  happy  man  whose  cherished  dream  was 
so  obviously  fulfilled,  who  had  attained  his  object 
in  life,  who  had  gained  what  he  wanted,  who  was 
satisfied  with  his  fate  and  himself.  There  is  always, 
for  some  reason,  an  element  of  sadness  mingled  with 
my  thoughts  of  human  happiness,  and,  on  this  oc- 
casion, at  the  sight  of  a  happy  man  I  was  overcome 
by  an  oppressive  feeling  that  was  close  upon  despair. 
It  was  particularly  oppressive  at  night.  A  bed  was 
made  up  for  me  in  the  room  next  to  my  brother's 
bedroom,  and  I  could  hear  that  he  was  awake,  and 
that  he  kept  getting  up  and  going  to  the  plate  of 
gooseberries  and  taking  one.  I  reflected  how  many 
satisfied,  happy  people  there  really  are!  What  a 
suffocating  force  it  is!  You  look  at  life:  the  inso- 
lence and  idleness  of  the  strong,  the  ignorance  and 
brutishness  of  the  weak,  incredible  poverty  all  about 
us,    overcrowding,    degeneration,    drunkenness,    hy- 


Gooseberries  283 

pocrisy,  lying.  .  .  .  Yet  all  is  calm  and  stillness  in 
the  houses  and  in  the  streets;  of  the  fifty  thousand 
living  in  a  town,  there  is  not  one  who  would  cry  out, 
who  would  give  vent  to  his  indignation  aloud.  We 
see  the  people  going  to  market  for  provisions,  eating 
by  day,  sleeping  by  night,  talking  their  silly  nonsense, 
getting  married,  growing  old,  serenely  escorting  their 
dead  to  the  cemetery;  but  we  do  not  see  and  we  do 
not  hear  those  who  suffer,  and  what  is  terrible  in  life 
goes  on  somewhere  behind  the  scenes.  .  .  .  Every- 
thing is  quiet  and  peaceful,  and  nothing  protests  but 
mute  statistics:  so  many  people  gone  out  of  their 
minds,  so  many  gallons  of  vodka  drunk,  so  many 
children  dead  from  malnutrition.  .  .  .  And  this  or- 
der of  things  is  evidently  necessary;  evidently  the 
happy  man  only  feels  at  ease  because  the  unhappy 
bear  their  burdens  in  silence,  and  without  that  silence 
happiness  would  be  impossible.  It's  a  case  of  gen- 
eral hypnotism.  There  ought  to  be  behind  the  door 
of  every  happy,  contented  man  some  one  standing 
with  a  hammer  continually  reminding  him  with  a  tap 
that  there  are  unhappy  people;  that  however  happy 
he  may  be,  life  will  show  him  her  laws  sooner  or 
later,  trouble  will  come  for  him  —  disease,  poverty, 
losses,  and  no  one  will  see  or  hear,  just  as  now  he 
neither  sees  nor  hears  others.  But  there  is  no  man 
with  a  hammer;  the  happy  man  lives  at  his  ease,  and 
trivial  daily  cares  faintly  agitate  him  like  the  wind  in 
the  aspen-tree  —  and  all  goes  well. 

"  That  night  I  realized  that  I,  too,  was  happy  and 
contented,"  Ivan  Ivanovitch  went  on,  getting  up. 
"  I,  too,  at  dinner  and  at  the  hunt  liked  to  lay  down 


284  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

the  law  on  life  and  religion,  and  the  way  to  manage 
the  peasantry.  I,  too,  used  to  say  that  science  was 
light,  that  culture  was  essential,  but  for  the  simple 
people  reading  and  writing  was  enough  for  the  time. 
Freedom  is  a  blessing,  I  used  to  say;  we  can  no  more 
do  without  it  than  without  air,  but  we  must  wait  a 
little.  Yes,  I  used  to  talk  like  that,  and  now  I 
ask,  'For  what  reason  are  we  to  wait?'"  asked 
Ivan  Ivanovitch,  looking  angrily  at  Burkin.  "  Why 
wait,  I  ask  you?  What  grounds  have  we  for  wait- 
ing? I  shall  be  told,  it  can't  be  done  all  at  once; 
every  idea  takes  shape  in  life  gradually,  in  its  due 
time.  But  who  is  it  says  that?  Where  is  the  proof 
that  it's  right?  You  will  fall  back  upon  the  natural 
order  of  things,  the  uniformity  of  phenomena;  but  is 
there  order  and  uniformity  in  the  fact  that  I,  a  living, 
thinking  man,  stand  over  a  chasm  and  wait  for  it 
to  close  of  itself,  or  to  fill  up  with  mud  at  the  very 
time  when  perhaps  I  might  leap  over  it  or  build  a 
bridge  across  it?  And  again,  wait  for  the  sake  of 
what?  Wait  till  there's  no  strength  to  live?  And 
meanwhile  one  must  live,  and  one  wants  to  live ! 

"  I  went  away  from  my  brother's  early  in  the 
morning,  and  ever  since  then  it  has  been  unbearable 
for  me  to  be  in  town.  I  am  oppressed  by  its  peace 
and  quiet;  I  am  afraid  to  look  at  the  windows,  for 
there  is  no  spectacle  more  painful  to  me  now  than 
the  sight  of  a  happy  family  sitting  round  the  table 
drinking  tea.  I  am  old  and  am  not  fit  for  the  strug- 
gle; I  am  not  even  capable  of  hatred;  I  can  only 
grieve  inwardly,  feel  irritated  and  vexed;  but  at  night 


Gooseberries  285 

my  head  is  hot  from  the  rush  of  ideas,  and  I  cannot 
sleep.  .  .  .  Ah,  if  I  were  young !  " 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  walked  backwards  and  forwards 
in  excitement,  and  repeated:     "  If  I  were  young!  " 

He  suddenly  went  up  to  Alehin  and  began  pressing 
first  one  of  his  hands  and  then  the  other. 

"  Pavel  Konstantinovitch,"  he  said  in  an  implor- 
ing voice,  "  don't  be  calm  and  contented,  don't  let 
yourself  be  put  to  sleep!  While  you  are  young, 
strong,  confident,  be  not  weary  in  well-doing!  There 
is  no  happiness,  and  there  ought  not  to  be;  but  if 
there  is  a  meaning  and  an  object  in  life,  that  meaning 
and  object  is  not  our  happiness,  but  something 
greater  and  more  rational.     Do  good!  " 

And  all  this  Ivan  Ivanovitch  said  with  a  pitiful, 
imploring  smile,  as  though  he  were  asking  him  a 
personal   favour. 

Then  all  three  sat  in  arm-chairs  at  different  ends  of 
the  drawing-room  and  were  silent.  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch's  story  had  not  satisfied  either  Burkin  or  Alehin. 
When  the  generals  and  ladies  gazed  down  from  their 
gilt  frames,  looking  in  the  dusk  as  though  they  were 
alive,  it  was  dreary  to  listen  to  the  story  of  the  poor 
clerk  who  ate  gooseberries.  They  felt  inclined,  for 
some  reason,  to  talk  about  elegant  people,  about 
women.  And  their  sitting  in  the  drawing-room 
where  everything  —  the  chandeliers  in  their  covers, 
the  arm-chairs,  and  the  carpet  under  their  feet  —  re- 
minded them  that  those  very  people  who  were  now 
looking  down  from  their  frames  had  once  moved 
about,  sat,  drunk  tea  in  this  room,  and  the  fact  that 


286  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

lovely  Pelagea  was  moving  noiselessly  about  was  bet- 
ter than  any  story. 

Alehin  was  fearfully  sleepy;  he  had  got  up  early, 
before  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  look  after 
his  work,  and  now  his  eyes  were  closing;  but  he  was 
afraid  his  visitors  might  tell  some  interesting  story 
after  he  had  gone,  and  he  lingered  on.  He  did  not 
go  into  the  question  whether  what  Ivan  Ivanovitch 
had  just  said  was  right  and  true.  His  visitors  did 
not  talk  of  groats,  nor  of  hay,  nor  of  tar,  but  of 
something  that  had  no  direct  bearing  on  his  life,  and 
he  was  glad  and  wanted  them  to  go  on. 

"  It's  bed-time,  though,"  said  Burkin,  getting  up. 
"  Allow  me  to  wish  you  good-night." 

Alehin  said  good-night  and  went  downstairs  to  his 
own  domain,  while  the  visitors  remained  upstairs. 
They  were  both  taken  for  the  night  to  a  big  room 
where  there  stood  two  old  wooden  beds  decorated 
with  carvings,  and  in  the  corner  was  an  ivory  crucifix. 
The  big  cool  beds,  which  had  been  made  by  the 
lovely  Pelagea,  smelt  agreeably  of  clean  linen. 

Ivan  Ivanovitch  undressed  in  silence  and  got  into 
bed. 

"  Lord  forgive  us  sinners!  "  he  said,  and  put  his 
head  under  the  quilt. 

His  pipe  lying  on  the  table  smelt  strongly  of  stale 
tobacco,  and  Burkin  could  not  sleep  for  a  long  while, 
and  kept  wondering  where  the  oppressive  smell  came 
from. 

The  rain  was  pattering  on  the  window-panes  all 
night. 


ABOUT  LOVE 


ABOUT  LOVE 

At  lunch  next  day  there  were  very  nice  pies,  crayfish, 
and  mutton  cutlets;  and  while  we  were  eating,  Nika- 
nor,  the  cook,  came  up  to  ask  what  the  visitors  would 
like  for  dinner.  He  was  a  man  of  medium  height, 
with  a  puffy  face  and  little  eyes;  he  was  close-shaven, 
and  it  looked  as  though  his  moustaches  had  not  been 
shaved,  but  had  been  pulled  out  by  the  roots.  Ale- 
hin  told  us  that  the  beautiful  Pelagea  was  in  love 
with  this  cook.  As  he  drank  and  was  of  a  violent 
character,  she  did  not  want  to  marry  him,  but  was 
willing  to  live  with  him  without.  He  was  very  de- 
vout, and  his  religious  convictions  would  not  allow 
him  to  "  live  in  sin";  he  insisted  on  her  marrying 
him,  and  would  consent  to  nothing  else,  and  when  he 
was  drunk  he  used  to  abuse  her  and  even  beat  her. 
Whenever  he  got  drunk  she  used  to  hide  upstairs 
and  sob,  and  on  such  occasions  Alehin  and  the  serv- 
ants stayed  in  the  house  to  be  ready  to  defend  her  in 
case  of  necessity. 

We  began  talking  about  love. 

"  How  love  is  born,"  said  Alehin,  "  why  Pelagea 
does  not  love  somebody  more  like  herself  in  her 
spiritual  and  external  qualities,  and  why  she  fell  in 
love  with  Nikanor,  that  ugly  snout  —  we  all  call  him 
1  The  Snout ' —  how  far  questions  of  personal  happi- 
ness are  of  consequence  in  love  —  all  that  is  un- 

289 


290  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

known ;  one  can  take  what  view  one  likes  of  it.  So 
far  only  one  incontestable  truth  has  been  uttered 
about  love :  '  This  is  a  great  mystery.'  Every- 
thing else  that  has  been  written  or  said  about  love 
is  not  a  conclusion,  but  only  a  statement  of  questions 
which  have  remained  unanswered.  The  explanation 
which  would  seem  to  fit  one  case  does  not  apply  in 
a  dozen  others,  and  the  very  best  thing,  to  my  mind, 
would  be  to  explain  every  case  individually  without 
attempting  to  generalize.  We  ought,  as  the  doctors 
say,  to  individualize  each  case." 

"  Perfectly  true,"  Burkin  assented. 

"  We  Russians  of  the  educated  class  have  a  par- 
tiality for  these  questions  that  remain  unanswered. 
Love  is  usually  poeticized,  decorated  with  roses, 
nightingales;  we  Russians  decorate  our  loves  with 
these  momentous  questions,  and  select  the  most  unin- 
teresting of  them,  too.  In  Moscow,  when  I  was  a 
student,  I  had  a  friend  who  shared  my  life,  a  charm- 
ing lady,  and  every  time  I  took  her  in  my  arms  she 
was  thinking  what  I  would  allow  her  a  month  for 
housekeeping  and  what  was  the  price  of  beef  a  pound. 
In  the  same  way,  when  we  are  in  love  we  are  never 
tired  of  asking  ourselves  questions:  whether  it  is 
honourable  or  dishonourable,  sensible  or  stupid,  what 
this  love  is  leading  up  to,  and  so  on.  Whether  it  is 
a  good  thing  or  not  I  don't  know,  but  that  it  is  in  the 
way,  unsatisfactory,  and  irritating,  I  do  know." 

It  looked  as  though  he  wanted  to  tell  some  story. 
People  who  lead  a  solitary  existence  always  have 
something  in  their  hearts  which  they  are  eager  to 
talk  about.     In  town  bachelors  visit  the  baths  and 


About  Love  291 

the  restaurants  on  purpose  to  talk,  and  sometimes  tell 
the  most  interesting  things  to  bath  attendants  and 
waiters;  in  the  country,  as  a  rule,  they  unbosom  them- 
selves to  their  guests.  Now  from  the  window  we 
could  see  a  grey  sky,  trees  drenched  in  the  rain;  in 
such  weather  we  could  go  nowhere,  and  there  was 
nothing  for  us  to  do  but  to  tell  stones  and  to  listen. 
"  I  have  lived  at  Sofino  and  been  farming  for  a 
long  time,"  Alehin  began,  "  ever  since  I  left  the  Uni- 
versity. I  am  an  idle  gentleman  by  education,  a 
studious  person  by  disposition;  but  there  was  a  big 
debt  owing  on  the  estate  when  I  came  here,  and  as 
my  father  was  in  debt  partly  because  he  had  spent 
so  much  on  my  education,  I  resolved  not  to  go  away, 
but  to  work  till  I  paid  off  the  debt.  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  this  and  set  to  work,  not,  I  must  confess, 
without  some  repugnance.  The  land  here  does  not 
yield  much,  and  if  one  is  not  to  farm  at  a  loss  one 
must  employ  serf  labour  or  hired  labourers,  which  is 
almost  the  same  thing,  or  put  it  on  a  peasant  footing 
—  that  is,  work  the  fields  oneself  and  with  one's  fam- 
ily. There  is  no  middle  path.  But  in  those  days  I 
did  not  go  into  such  subtleties.  I  did  not  leave  a  clod 
of  earth  unturned;  I  gathered  together  all  the  peas- 
ants, men  and  women,  from  the  neighbouring  vil- 
lages; the  work  went  on  at  a  tremendous  pace.  I 
myself  ploughed  and  sowed  and  reaped,  and  was 
bored  doing  it,  and  frowned  with  disgust,  like  a  vil- 
lage cat  driven  by  hunger  to  eat  cucumbers  in  the 
kitchen-garden.  My  body  ached,  and  I  slept  as  I 
walked.  At  first  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  easily 
reconcile  this  life  of  toil  with  my  cultured  habits;  to 


292  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

do  so,  I  thought,  all  that  is  necessary  is  to  maintain 
a  certain  external  order  in  life.  I  established  myself 
upstairs  here  in  the  best  rooms,  and  ordered  them  to 
bring  me  there  coffee  and  liquor  after  lunch  and 
dinner,  and  when  I  went  to  bed  I  read  every  night 
the  Vyestnik  Evropi.  But  one  day  our  priest,  Fa- 
ther Ivan,  came  and  drank  up  all  my  liquor  at  one 
sitting;  and  the  Vyestnik  Evropi  went  to  the  priest's 
daughters;  as  in  the  summer,  especially  at  the  hay- 
making, I  did  not  succeed  in  getting  to  my  bed  at 
all,  and  slept  in  the  sledge  in  the  barn,  or  somewhere 
in  the  forester's  lodge,  what  chance  was  there  of 
reading?  Little  by  little  I  moved  downstairs,  began 
dining  in  the  servants'  kitchen,  and  of  my  former 
luxury  nothing  is  left  but  the  servants  who  were  in 
my  father's  service,  and  whom  it  would  be  painful 
to  turn  away. 

"  In  the  first  years  I  was  elected  here  an  honourary 
justice  of  the  peace.  I  used  to  have  to  go  to  the 
town  and  take  part  in  the  sessions  of  the  congress 
and  of  the  circuit  court,  and  this  was  a  pleasant 
change  for  me.  When  you  live  here  for  two  or 
three  months  without  a  break,  especially  in  the 
winter,  you  begin  at  last  to  pine  for  a  black  coat. 
And  in  the  circuit  court  there  were  frock-coats,  and 
uniforms,  and  dress-coats,  too,  all  lawyers,  men  who 
have  received  a  general  education;  I  had  some  one 
to  talk  to.  After  sleeping  in  the  sledge  and  dining 
in  the  kitchen,  to  sit  in  an  arm-chair  in  clean  linen, 
in  thin  boots,  with  a  chain  on  one's  waistcoat,  is  such 
luxury! 

"  I  received  a  warm  welcome  in  the  town.     I  made 


About  Love  293 

friends  eagerly.  And  of  all  my  acquaintanceships 
the  most  intimate  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  most 
agreeable  to  me  was  my  acquaintance  with  Lugano- 
vitch,  the  vice-president  of  the  circuit  court.  You 
both  know  him :  a  most  charming  personality.  It  all 
happened  just  after  a  celebrated  case  of  incendiar- 
ism; the  preliminary  investigation  lasted  two  days; 
we  were  exhausted.  Luganovitch  looked  at  me  and 
said: 

"  '  Look  here,  come  round  to  dinner  with  me.' 
"  This  was  unexpected,  as  I  knew  Luganovitch 
very  little,  only  officially,  and  I  had  never  been  to 
his  house.  I  only  just  went  to  my  hotel  room  to 
change  and  went  off  to  dinner.  And  here  it  was 
my  lot  to  meet  Anna  Alexyevna,  Luganovitch' s  wife. 
At  that  time  she  was  still  very  young,  not  more 
than  twenty-two,  and  her  first  baby  had  been  born 
just  six  months  before.  It  is  all  a  thing  of  the  past; 
and  now  I  should  find  it  difficult  to  define  what  there 
was  so  exceptional  in  her,  what  it  was  in  her  attracted 
me  so  much;  at  the  time,  at  dinner,  it  was  all  per- 
fectly clear  to  me.  I  saw  a  lovely  young,  good,  in- 
telligent, fascinating  woman,  such  as  I  had  never  met 
before;  and  I  felt  her  at  once  some  one  close  and 
already  familiar,  as  though  that  face,  those  cordial, 
intelligent  eyes,  I  had  seen  somewhere  in  my  child- 
hood, in  the  album  which  lay  on  my  mother's  chest  of 
drawers. 

"  Four  Jews  were  charged  with  being  incendiaries, 
were  regarded  as  a  gang  of  robbers,  and,  to  my 
mind,  quite  groundlessly.  At  dinner  I  was  very 
much  excited,  I  was  uncomfortable,  and  I  don't  know 


294  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

what  I  said,  but  Anna  Alexyevna  kept  shaking  her 
head  and  saying  to  her  husband: 

"  '  Dmitry,  how  is  this?  ' 

"  Luganovitch  is  a  good-natured  man,  one  of  those 
simple-hearted  people  who  firmly  maintain  the  opin- 
ion that  once  a  man  is  charged  before  a  court  he  is 
guilty,  and  to  express  doubt  of  the  correctness  of  a 
sentence  cannot  be  done  except  in  legal  form  on 
paper,  and  not  at  dinner  and  in  private  conversation. 

"  '  You  and  I  did  not  set  fire  to  the  place,'  he 
said  softly,  '  and  you  see  we  are  not  condemned,  and 
not  in  prison.' 

"  And  both  husband  and  wife  tried  to  make  me 
eat  and  drink  as  much  as  possible.  From  some  tri- 
fling details,  from  the  way  they  made  the  coffee  to- 
gether, for  instance,  and  from  the  way  they  under- 
stood each  other  at  half  a  word,  I  could  gather  that 
they  lived  in  harmony  and  comfort,  and  that  they 
were  glad  of  a  visitor.  After  dinner  they  played  a 
duet  on  the  piano ;  then  it  got  dark,  and  I  went  home. 
That  was  at  the  beginning  of  spring. 

"  After  that  I  spent  the  whole  summer  at  Sofino 
without  a  break,  and  I  had  no  time  to  think  of  the 
town,  either,  but  the  memory  of  the  graceful  fair- 
haired  woman  remained  in  my  mind  all  those  days; 
I  did  not  think  of  her,  but  it  was  as  though  her  light 
shadow  were  lying  on  my  heart. 

"  In  the  late  autumn  there  was  a  theatrical  per- 
formance for  some  charitable  object  in  the  town. 
I  went  into  the  governor's  box  (I  was  invited  to  go 
there  in  the  interval)  ;  I  looked,  and  there  was  Anna 
Alexyevna  sitting  beside  the  governor's  wife;  and 


About  Love  295 

again  the  same  irresistible,  thrilling  impression  of 
beauty  and  sweet,  caressing  eyes,  and  again  the  same 
feeling  of  nearness.  We  sat  side  by  side,  then  went 
to  the  foyer. 

'  You've  grown  thinner,'   she  said;  'have  you 
been  ill?' 

Yes,  I've  had  rheumatism  in  my  shoulder,  and 
in  rainy  weather  I  can't  sleep.' 

"  '  You  look  dispirited.  In  the  spring,  when  you 
came  to  dinner,  you  were  younger,  more  confident. 
You  were  full  of  eagerness,  and  talked  a  great  deal 
then ;  you  were  very  interesting,  and  I  really  must 
confess  I  was  a  little  carried  away  by  you.  For 
some  reason  you  often  came  back  to  my  memory 
during  the  summer,  and  when  I  was  getting  ready 
for  the  theatre  today  I  thought  I  should  see  you.' 

11  And  she  laughed. 

"'But  you  look  dispirited  today,'  she  repeated; 
*  it  makes  you  seem  older.' 

"  The  next  day  I  lunched  at  the  Luganovitchs'. 
After  lunch  they  drove  out  to  their  summer  villa, 
in  order  to  make  arrangements  there  for  the  winter, 
and  I  went  with  them.  I  returned  with  them  to  the 
town,  and  at  midnight  drank  tea  with  them  in  quiet 
domestic  surroundings,  while  the  fire  glowed,  and 
the  young  mother  kept  going  to  see  if  her  baby  girl 
was  asleep.  And  after  that,  every  time  I  went  to 
town  I  never  failed  to  visit  the  Luganovitchs.  They 
grew  used  to  me,  and  I  grew  used  to  them.  As  a 
rule  I  went  in  unannounced,  as  though  I  were  one 
of  the  family. 

"  '  Who  is  there?  '  I  would  hear  from  a  faraway 


296  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

room,  in  the  drawling  voice  that  seemed  to  me  so 
lovely. 

"  '  It  is  Pavel  Konstantinovitch,'  answered  the 
maid  or  the  nurse. 

"  Anna  Alexyevna  would  come  out  to  me  with  an 
anxious  face,  and  would  ask  every  time : 

"  '  Why  is  it  so  long  since  you  have  been?  Has 
anything  happened?  ' 

11  Her  eyes,  the  elegant  refined  hand  she  gave  me, 
her  indoor  dress,  the  way  she  did  her  hair,  her  voice, 
her  step,  always  produced  the  same  impression  on 
me  of  something  new  and  extraordinary  in  my  life, 
and  very  important.  We  talked  together  for  hours, 
were  silent,  thinking  each  our  own  thoughts,  or  she 
played  for  hours  to  me  on  the  piano.  If  there  were 
no  one  at  home  I  stayed  and  waited,  talked  to  the 
nurse,  played  with  the  child,  or  lay  on  the  sofa  in 
the  study  and  read;  and  when  Anna  Alexyevna  came 
back  I  met  her  in  the  hall,  took  all  her  parcels  from 
her,  and  for  some  reason  I  carried  those  parcels 
every  time  with  as  much  love,  with  as  much  solem- 
nity, as  a  boy. 

"  There  is  a  proverb  that  if  a  peasant  woman  has 
no  troubles  she  will  buy  a  pig.  The  Luganovitchs 
had  no  troubles,  so  they  made  friends  with  me.  If 
I  did  not  come  to  the  town  I  must  be  ill  or  some- 
thing must  have  happened  to  me,  and  both  of  them 
were  extremely  anxious.  They  were  worried  that 
I,  an  educated  man  with  a  knowledge  of  languages, 
should,  instead  of  devoting  myself  to  science  or  lit- 
erary work,  live  in  the  country,  rush  round  like  a 
squirrel  in  a  rage,  work  hard  with  never  a  penny  to 


About  Love  297 

show  for  it.  They  fancied  that  I  was  unhappy,  and 
that  I  only  talked,  laughed,  and  ate  to  conceal  my 
sufferings,  and  even  at  cheerful  moments  when  I  felt 
happy  I  was  aware  of  their  searching  eyes  fixed  upon 
me.  They  were  particularly  touching  when  I  really 
was  depressed,  when  I  was  being  worried  by  some 
creditor  or  had  not  money  enough  to  pay  interest  on 
the  proper  day.  The  two  of  them,  husband  and 
wife,  would  whisper  together  at  the  window;  then 
he  would  come  to  me  and  say  with  a  grave  face : 

"  '  If  you  really  are  in  need  of  money  at  the  mo- 
ment, Pavel  Konstantinovitch,  my  wife  and  I  beg 
you  not  to  hesitate  to  borrow  from  us.' 

"  And  he  would  blush  to  his  ears  with  emotion. 
And  it  would  happen  that,  after  whispering  in  the 
same  way  at  the  window,  he  would  come  up  to  me, 
with  red  ears,  and  say: 

"  '  My  wife  and  I  earnestly  beg  you  to  accept  this 
present.' 

"  And  he  would  give  me  studs,  a  cigar-case,  or 
a  lamp,  and  I  would  send  them  game,  butter,  and 
flowers  from  the  country.  They  both,  by  the  way, 
had  considerable  means  of  their  own.  In  early  days 
I  often  borrowed  money,  and  was  not  very  particu- 
lar about  it  —  borrowed  wherever  I  could  —  but 
nothing  in  the  world  would  have  induced  me  to  bor- 
row from  the  Luganovitchs.     But  why  talk  of  it? 

"  I  was  unhappy.  At  home,  in  the  fields,  in  the 
barn,  I  thought  of  her;  I  tried  to  understand  the 
mystery  of  a  beautiful,  intelligent  young  woman's 
marrying  some  one  so  uninteresting,  almost  an  old 
man  (her  husband  was  over  forty),  and  having  chil- 


298  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

dren  by  him;  to  understand  the  mystery  of  this  un- 
interesting, good,  simple-hearted  man,  who  argued 
with  such  wearisome  good  sense,  at  balls  and  evening 
parties  kept  near  the  more  solid  people,  looking  list- 
less and  superfluous,  with  a  submissive,  uninterested 
expression,  as  though  he  had  been  brought  there  for 
sale,  who  yet  believed  in  his  right  to  be  happy,  to 
have  children  by  her;  and  I  kept  trying  to  under- 
stand why  she  had  met  him  first  and  not  me,  and 
why  such  a  terrible  mistake  in  our  lives  need  have 
happened. 

"  And  when  I  went  to  the  town  I  saw  every  time 
from  her  eyes  that  she  was  expecting  me,  and  she 
would  confess  to  me  herself  that  she  had  had  a  pe- 
culiar feeling  all  that  day  and  had  guessed  that  I 
should  come.  We  talked  a  long  time,  and  were 
silent,  yet  we  did  not  confess  our  love  to  each  other, 
but  timidly  and  jealously  concealed  it.  We  were 
afraid  of  everything  that  might  reveal  our  secret  to 
ourselves.  I  loved  her  tenderly,  deeply,  but  I  re- 
flected and  kept  asking  myself  what  our  love  could 
lead  to  if  we  had  not  the  strength  to  fight  against  it. 
It  seemed  to  be  incredible  that  my  gentle,  sad  love 
could  all  at  once  coarsely  break  up  the  even  tenor  of 
the  life  of  her  husband,  her  children,  and  all  the 
household  in  which  I  was  so  loved  and  trusted. 
Would  it  be  honourable?  She  would  go  away  with 
me,  but  where?  Where  could  I  take  her?  It 
would  have  been  a  different  matter  if  I  had  had  a 
beautiful,  interesting  life  —  if,  for  instance,  I  had 
been  struggling  for  the  emancipation  of  my  country, 
or  had  been  a  celebrated  man  of  science,  an  artist 


About  Love  299 

or  a  painter;  but  as  it  was  it  would  mean  taking  her 
from  one  everyday  humdrum  life  to  another  as  hum- 
drum or  perhaps  more  so.  And  how  long  would 
our  happiness  last?  What  would  happen  to  her  in 
case  I  was  ill,  in  case  I  died,  or  if  we  simply  grew 
cold  to  one  another? 

"  And  she  apparently  reasoned  in  the  same  way. 
She  thought  of  her  husband,  her  children,  and  of  her 
mother,  who  loved  the  husband  like  a  son.  If  she 
abandoned  herself  to  her  feelings  she  would  have  to 
lie,  or  else  to  tell  the  truth,  and  in  her  position  either 
would  have  been  equally  terrible  and  inconvenient. 
And  she  was  tormented  by  the  question  whether  her 
love  would  bring  me  happiness  —  would  she  not 
complicate  my  life,  which,  as  it  was,  was  hard 
enough  and  full  of  all  sorts  of  trouble?  She  fancied 
she  was  not  young  enough  for  me,  that  she  was  not 
industrious  nor  energetic  enough  to  begin  a  new  life, 
and  she  often  talked  to  her  husband  of  the  impor- 
tance of  my  marrying  a  girl  of  intelligence  and  merit 
who  would  be  a  capable  housewife  and  a  help  to  me 
—  and  she  would  immediately  add  that  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  such  a  girl  in  the  whole  town. 

"  Meanwhile  the  years  were  passing.  Anna 
Alexyevna  already  had  two  children.  When  I  ar- 
rived at  the  Luganovitchs'  the  servants  smiled 
cordially,  the  children  shouted  that  Uncle  Pavel 
Konstantinovitch  had  come,  and  hung  on  my  neck; 
every  one  was  overjoyed.  They  did  not  understand 
what  was  passing  in  my  soul,  and  thought  that  I,  too, 
was  happy.     Every  one  looked  on  me  as  a  noble 


300  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

being.  And  grown-ups  and  children  alike  felt  that 
a  noble  being  was  walking  about  their  rooms,  and 
that  gave  a  peculiar  charm  to  their  manner  towards 
me,  as  though  in  my  presence  their  life,  too,  was 
purer  and  more  beautiful.  Anna  Alexyevna  and  I 
used  to  go  to  the  theatre  together,  always  walking 
there;  we  used  to  sit  side  by  side  in  the  stalls,  our 
shoulders  touching.  I  would  take  the  opera-glass 
from  her  hands  without  a  word,  and  feel  at  that 
minute  that  she  was  near  me,  that  she  was  mine,  that 
we  could  not  live  without  each  other;  but  by  some 
strange  misunderstanding,  when  we  came  out  of  the 
theatre  we  always  said  good-bye  and  parted  as 
though  we  were  strangers.  Goodness  knows  what 
people  were  saying  about  us  in  the  town  already,  but 
there  was  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it  all ! 

"  In  the  latter  years  Anna  Alexyevna  took  to 
going  away  for  frequent  visits  to  her  mother  or  to 
her  sister;  she  began  to  suffer  from  low  spirits,  she 
began  to  recognize  that  her  life  was  spoilt  and  un- 
satisfied, and  at  times  she  did  not  care  to  see  her 
husband  nor  her  children.  She  was  already  being 
treated  for  neurasthenia. 

"  We  were  silent  and  still  silent,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  outsiders  she  displayed  a  strange  irritation 
in  regard  to  me;  whatever  I  talked  about,  she  dis- 
agreed with  me,  and  if  I  had  an  argument  she  sided 
with  my  opponent.  If  I  dropped  anything,  she 
would  say  coldly : 

'  I  congratulate  you.' 

"  If  I  forgot  to  take  the  opera-glass  when  we  were 
gpjng  to  the  theatre,  she  would  say  afterwards: 


About  Love  301 

"  '  I  knew  you  would  forget  it.' 

"  Luckily  or  unluckily,  there  is  nothing  in  our  lives 
that  does  not  end  sooner  or  later.  The  time  of 
parting  came,  as  Luganovitch  was  appointed  presi- 
dent in  one  of  the  western  provinces.  They  had  to 
sell  their  furniture,  their  horses,  their  summer  villa. 
When  they  drove  out  to  the  villa,  and  afterwards 
looked  back  as  they  were  going  away,  to  look  for 
the  last  time  at  the  garden,  at  the  green  roof,  every 
one  was  sad,  and  I  realized  that  I  had  to  say  good- 
bye not  only  to  the  villa.  It  was  arranged  that  at 
the  end  of  August  we  should  see  Anna  Alexyevna  off 
to  the  Crimea,  where  the  doctors  were  sending  her, 
and  that  a  little  later  Luganovitch  and  the  children 
would  set  off  for  the  western  province. 

"  We  were  a  great  crowd  to  see  Anna  Alexyevna 
off.  When  she  had  said  good-bye  to  her  husband 
and  her  children  and  there  was  only  a  minute  left 
before  the  third  bell,  I  ran  into  her  compartment 
to  put  a  basket,  which  she  had  almost  forgotten, 
on  the  rack,  and  I  had  to  say  good-bye.  When  our 
eyes  met  in  the  compartment  our  spiritual  fortitude 
deserted  us  both;  I  took  her  in  my  arms,  she  pressed 
her  face  to  my  breast,  and  tears  flowed  from  her 
eyes.  Kissing  her  face,  her  shoulders,  her  hands 
wet  with  tears  —  oh,  how  unhappy  we  were  !  —  I 
confessed  my  love  for  her,  and  with  a  burning  pain 
in  my  heart  I  realized  how  unnecessary,  how  petty, 
and  how  deceptive  all  that  had  hindered  us  from 
loving  was.  I  understood  that  when  you  love  you 
must  either,  in  your  reasonings  about  that  love,  start 
from  what  is  highest,  from  what  is  more  important 


302  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

than  happiness  or  unhappiness,  sin  or  virtue  in  their 
accepted  meaning,  or  you  must  not  reason  at  all. 

"  I  kissed  her  for  the  last  time,  pressed  her  hand, 
and  parted  for  ever.  The  train  had  already  started. 
I  went  into  the  next  compartment  —  it  was  empty  — 
and  until  I  reached  the  next  station  I  sat  there  crying. 
Then  I  walked  home  to  Sofino.  .  .  ." 

While  Alehin  was  telling  his  story,  the  rain  left 
off  and  the  sun  came  out.  Burkin  and  Ivan  Ivano- 
vitch  went  out  on  the  balcony,  from  which  there  was 
a  beautiful  view  over  the  garden  and  the  mill-pond, 
which  was  shining  now  in  the  sunshine  like  a  mirror. 
They  admired  it,  and  at  the  same  time  they  were 
sorry  that  this  man  with  the  kind,  clever  eyes,  who 
had  told  them  this  story  with  such  genuine  feeling, 
should  be  rushing  round  and  round  this  huge  estate 
like  a  squirrel  on  a  wheel  instead  of  devoting  himself 
to  science  or  something  else  which  would  have  made 
his  life  more  pleasant;  and  they  thought  what  a  sor- 
rowful face  Anna  Alexyevna  must  have  had  when 
he  said  good-bye  to  her  in  the  railway-carriage  and 
kissed  her  face  and  shoulders.  Both  of  them  had 
met  her  in  the  town,  and  Burkin  knew  her  and 
thought  her  beautiful. 


THE  LOTTERY  TICKET 


THE  LOTTERY  TICKET 

Ivan  Dmitritch,  a  middle-class  man  who  lived 
with  his  family  on  an  income  of  twelve  hundred  a 
year  and  was  very  well  satisfied  with  his  lot,  sat 
down  on  the  sofa  after  supper  and  began  reading 
the  newspaper 

"  I  forgot  to  look  at  the  newspaper  today,"  his 
wife  said  to  him  as  she  cleared  the  table.  "  Look 
and  see  whether  the  list  of  drawings  is  there." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Ivan  Dmitritch;  "but  hasn't 
your  ticket  lapsed?  " 

"  No;  I  took  the  interest  on  Tuesday." 

"What  is  the  number?  " 

"  Series  9,499,  number  26." 

"  All  right  ...  we  will  look  .  .  .  9,499  and 
26." 

Ivan  Dmitritch  had  no  faith  in  lottery  luck,  and 
would  not,  as  a  rule,  have  consented  to  look  at  the 
lists  of  winning  numbers,  but  now,  as  he  had  nothing 
else  to  do  and  as  the  newspaper  was  before  his  eyes, 
he  passed  his  finger  downwards  along  the  column  of 
numbers.  And  immediately,  as  though  in  mockery 
of  his  scepticism,  no  further  than  the  second  line 
from  the  top,  his  eye  was  caught  by  the  figure  9,499! 
Unable  to  believe  his  eyes,  he  hurriedly  dropped  the 
paper  on  his  knees  without  looking  to  see  the  number 
of  the  ticket,  and,  just  as  though  some  one  had  given 

395 


306  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

him  a  douche  of  cold  water,  he  felt  an  agreeable  chill 
in  the  pit  of  the  stomach;  tingling  and  terrible  and 
sweet! 

"  Masha,  9,499  is  there!"  he  said  in  a  hollow 
voice. 

His  wife  looked  at  his  astonished  and  panic- 
stricken  face,  and  realized  that  he  was  not  joking. 

"9,499?"  she  asked,  turning  pale  and  dropping 
the  folded  tablecloth  on  the  table. 

11  Yes,  yes  ...  it  really  is  there!  " 

"  And  the  number  of  the  ticket?  " 

"  Oh,  yes!  There's  the  number  of  the  ticket  too. 
But  stay  .  .  .  wait!  No,  I  say!  Anyway,  the 
number  of  our  series  is  there !  Anyway,  you  under- 
stand.  .   .   ." 

Looking  at  his  wife,  Ivan  Dmitritch  gave  a  broad, 
senseless  smile,  like  a  baby  when  a  bright  object  is 
shown  it.  His  wife  smiled  too;  it  was  as  pleasant 
to  her  as  to  him  that  he  only  mentioned  the  series, 
and  did  not  try  to  find  out  the  number  of  the  winning 
ticket.  To  torment  and  tantalize  oneself  with  hopes 
of  possible  fortune  is  so  sweet,  so  thrilling! 

"  It  is  our  series,"  said  Ivan  Dmitritch,  after  a 
long  silence.  "  So  there  is  a  probability  that  we 
have  won.     It's  only  a  probability,  but  there  it  is!  " 

"Well,  now  look!" 

"  Wait  a  little.  We  have  plenty  of  time  to  be 
disappointed.  It's  on  the  second  line  from  the  top, 
so  the  prize  is  seventy-five  thousand.  That's  not 
money,  but  power,  capital!  And  in  a  minute  I  shall 
look  at  the  list,  and  there  —  26!  Eh?  I  say,  what 
if  we  really  have  won?  " 


The  Lottery  Ticket  307 

The  husband  and  wife  began  laughing  and  staring 
at  one  another  in  silence.  The  possibility  of  win- 
ning bewildered  them;  they  could  not  have  said, 
could  not  have  dreamed,  what  they  both  needed  that 
seventy-five  thousand  for,  what  they  would  buy, 
where  they  would  go.  They  thought  only  of  the 
figures  9,499  and  75,000  and  pictured  them  in  their 
imagination,  while  somehow  they  could  not  think  of 
the  happiness  itself  which  was  sr  possible. 

Ivan  Dmitritch,  holding  the  paper  in  his  hand, 
walked  several  times  from  corner  to  corner,  and  only 
when  he  had  recovered  from  the  first  impression  be- 
gan dreaming  a  little. 

11  And  if  we  have  won,"  he  said  — "  why,  it  will 
be  a  new  life,  it  will  be  a  transformation!  The 
ticket  is  yours,  but  if  it  were  mine  I  should,  first  of 
all,  of  course,  spend  twenty-five  thousand  on  real 
property  in  the  shape  of  an  estate;  ten  thousand  on 
immediate  expenses,  new  furnishing  .  .  .  travelling 
.  .  .  paying  debts,  and  so  on.  .  .  .  The  other  forty 
thousand  I  would  put  in  the  bank  and  get  interest 
on  it." 

"  Yes,  an  estate,  that  would  be  nice,"  said  his  wife, 
sitting  down  and  roopine  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

11  Somewhere  in  the  Tula  or  Oryol  provinces.  .  .  . 
In  the  first  place  we  shouldn't  need  a  summer  villa, 
and  besides,  it  would  always  bring  in  an  income." 

And  pictures  came  crowding  on  his  imagination, 
each  more  gracious  and  poetical  than  the  last.  And 
in  all  these  pictures  he  saw  himself  well-fed,  serene, 
healthy,  felt  warm,  even  hot!  Here,  after  eating 
a  summer  soup,  cold  as  ice,  he  lay  on  his  back  on 


3o8 


The  Tales  of  Chekhov 


the  burning  sand  close  to  a  stream  or  in  the  garden 
under  a  lime-tree.  ...  It  is  hot.  .  .  .  His  little 
boy  and  girl  are  crawling  about  near  him,  digging  in 
the  sand  or  catching  ladybirds  in  the  grass.  He 
dozes  sweetly,  thinking  of  nothing,  and  feeling  all 
over  that  he  need  not  go  to  the  office  today,  tomor- 
row, or  the  day  after.  Or,  tired  of  lying  still,  he 
goes  to  the  hayfield,  or  to  the  forest  for  mushrooms, 
or  watches  the  peasants  catching  fish  with  a  net. 
When  the  sun  sets  he  takes  a  towel  and  soap  and 
saunters  to  the  bathing-shed,  where  he  undresses  at 
his  leisure,  slowly  rubs  his  bare  chest  with  his  hands, 
and  goes  into  the  water.  And  in  the  water,  near 
the  opaque  soapy  circles,  little  fish  flit  to  and  fro  and 
green  water-weeds  nod  their  heads.  After  bathing 
there  is  tea  with  cream  and  milk  rolls.  ...  In  the 
evening  a  walk  or  vint  with  the  neighbours. 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  nice  to  buy  an  estate,"  said  his 
wife,  also  dreaming,  and  from  her  face  it  was  evi- 
dent that  she  was  enchanted  by  her  thoughts. 

Ivan  Dmitritch  pictured  to  himself  autumn  with 
its  rains,  its  cold  evenings,  and  its  St.  Martin's  sum- 
mer. At  that  season  he  would  have  to  take  longer 
walks  about  the  garden  and  beside  the  river,  so  as 
to  get  thoroughly  chilled,  and  then  drink  a  big  glass 
of  vodka  and  eat  a  salted  mushroom  or  a  soused 
cucumber,  and  then  —  drink  another.  .  .  .  The 
children  would  come  running  from  the  kitchen-gar- 
den, bringing  a  carrot  and  a  radish  smelling  of  fresh 
earth.  .  .  .  And  then,  he  would  lie  stretched  full 
length  on  the  sofa,  and  in  leisurely  fashion  turn  over 


The  Lottery  Ticket  309 

the  pages  of  some  illustrated  magazine,  or,  covering 
his  face  with  it  and  unbuttoning  his  waistcoat,  give 
himself  up  to  slumber. 

The  St.  Martin's  summer  is  followed  by  cloudy, 
gloomy  weather.  It  rains  day  and  night,  the  bare 
trees  weep,  the  wind  is  damp  and  cold.  The  dogs, 
the  horses,  the  fowls  —  all  are  wet,  depressed, 
downcast.  There  is  nowhere  to  walk;  one  can't  go 
out  for  days  together;  one  has  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  room,  looking  despondently  at  the  grey  window. 
It  is  dreary! 

Ivan  Dmitritch  stopped  and  looked  at  his  wife. 

"  I  should  go  abroad,  you  know,  Masha,"  he  said. 

And  he  began  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  in 
late  autumn  to  go  abroad  somewhere  to  the  South 
of  France  ...  to  Italy  ....  to  India ! 

"  I  should  certainly  go  abroad  too,"  his  wife  said. 
"  But  look  at  the  number  of  the  ticket!  " 

"Wait,  wait!  .  .  ." 

He  walked  about  the  room  and  went  on  thinking. 
It  occurred  to  him:  what  if  his  wife  really  did  go 
abroad?  It  is  pleasant  to  travel  alone,  or  in  the 
society  of  light,  careless  women  who  live  in  the  pres- 
ent, and  not  such  as  think  and  talk  all  the  journey 
about  nothing  but  their  children,  sigh,  and  tremble 
with  dismay  over  every  farthing.  Ivan  Dmitritch 
imagined  his  wife  in  the  train  with  a  multitude  of 
parcels,  baskets,  and  bags;  she  would  be  sighing  over 
something,  complaining  that  the  train  made  her  head 
ache,  that  she  had  spent  so  much  money.  ...  At 
the  stations  he  would  continually  be  having  to  run 


310  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

for  boiling  water,  bread  and  butter.  .  .  .  She 
wouldn't  have  dinner  because  of  its  being  too 
dear 

"  She  would  begrudge  me  every  farthing,"  he 
thought,  with  a  glance  at  his  wife.  "  The  lottery- 
ticket  is  hers,  not  mine!  Besides,  what  is  the  use 
of  her  going  abroad?  What  does  she  want  there? 
She  would  shut  herself  up  in  the  hotel,  and  not  let 
me  out  of  her  sight.   .   .   .   I  know!" 

And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  his  mind  dwelt 
on  the  fact  that  his  wife  had  grown  elderly  and  plain, 
and  that  she  was  saturated  through  and  through 
with  the  smell  of  cooking,  while  he  was  still  young, 
fresh,  and  healthy,  and  might  well  have  got  married 
again. 

"  Of  course,  all  that  is  silly  nonsense,"  he  thought; 
"but  .  .  .  why  should  she  go  abroad?  What 
would  she  make  of  it?  And  yet  she  would  go,  of 
course.  ...  I  can  fancy  ...  In  reality  it  is  all 
one  to  her,  whether  it  is  Naples  or  Klin.  She  would 
only  be  in  my  way.  I  should  be  dependent  upon  her. 
I  can  fancy  how,  like  a  regular  woman,  she  will  lock 
the  money  up  as  soon  as  she  gets  it.  .  .  .  She  will 
hide  it  from  me.  .  .  .  She  will  look  after  her  rela- 
tions and  grudge  me  every  farthing." 

Ivan  Dmitritch  thought  of  her  relations.  All 
those  wretched  brothers  and  sisters  and  aunts  and 
uncles  would  come  crawling  about  as  soon  as  they 
heard  of  the  winning  ticket,  would  begin  whining 
like  beggars,  and  fawning  upon  them  with  oily, 
hypocritical  smlies.  Wretched,  detestable  people! 
If  they  were  given  anything,  they  would  ask  for 


The  Lottery  Ticket  311 

more;  while  if  they  were  refused,  they  would  swear 
at  them,  slander  them,  and  wish  them  every  kind  of 
misfortune. 

Ivan  Dmitritch  remembered  his  own  relations, 
and  their  faces,  at  which  he  had  looked  impartially 
in  the  past,  struck  him  now  as  repulsive  and  hateful. 

"  They  are  such  reptiles !  "  he  thought. 

And  his  wife's  face,  too,  struck  him  as  repulsive 
and  hateful.  Anger  surged  up  in  his  heart  against 
her,  and  he  thought  malignantly: 

"  She  knows  nothing  about  money,  and  so  she  is 
stingy.  If  she. won  it  she  would  give  me  a  hundred 
roubles,  and  put  the  rest  away  under  lock  and  key." 

And  he  looked  at  his  wife,  not  with  a  smile  now, 
but  with  hatred.  She  glanced  at  him  too,  and  also 
with  hatred  and  anger.  She  had  her  own  day- 
dreams, her  own  plans,  her  own  reflections;  she 
understood  perfectly  well  what  her  husband's 
dreams  were.  She  knew  who  would  be  the  first  to 
try  and  grab  her  winnings. 

"  It's  very  nice  making  daydreams  at  other  peo- 
ple's expense!  "  is  what  her  eyes  expressed.  "  No, 
don't  you  dare !  " 

Her  husband  understood  her  look;  hatred  began 
stirring  again  in  his  breast,  and  in  order  to  annoy 
his  wife  he  glanced  quickly,  to  spite  her  at  the  fourth 
page  on  the  newspaper  and  read  out  triumphantly: 

11  Series  9,499,  number  46 !     Not  26  !  " 

Hatred  and  hope  both  disappeared  at  once,  and 
it  began  immediately  to  seem  to  Ivan  Dmitritch  and 
his  wife  that  their  rooms  were  dark  and  small 
and  low-pitched,  that  the  supper  they  had  been  eat- 


312  The  Tales  of  Chekhov 

ing  was  not  doing  them  good,  but  lying  heavy  on 
their  stomachs,  that  the  evenings  were  long  and 
wearisome.  .  .  . 

"  What  the  devil's  the  meaning  of  it?  "  said  Ivan 
Dmitritch,  beginning  to  be  ill-humoured.  "  Wher- 
ever one  steps  there  are  bits  of  paper  under  one's 
feet,  crumbs,  husks.  The  rooms  are  never  swept! 
One  is  simply  forced  to  go  out.  Damnation  take 
my  soul  entirely!  I  shall  go  and  hang  myself  on 
the  first  aspen-tree !  " 


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